


Highwaymen.

by orange_crushed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-23 12:00:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 66,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orange_crushed/pseuds/orange_crushed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean closes his eyes. He is under a blanket in his memories, fabric pulled up under his chin and his face pressed near to hers on the pillow. His father is asleep, snoring slightly, hands loose and expression happy, curled around her on the other side. She's speaking in whispers. He knows that she was already pregnant then, that Sam was on his way into their lives, even though he'd had no idea what exactly that meant at the time. He can almost see her face still, warm and orange in the light of her <i>lumos</i> circling their heads like a firefly, but every now and then she blurs in his vision, like a lost thread of consciousness, something half-remembered.</p><p>Bit by bit, he's losing her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dean is in Romania, getting his remaining eyebrow hairs singed off, when the letter comes. It's in his basket when he comes down from the caves, smelling like forest fires and sweat and dragon shit, and he almost walks right by it. It's been months since he got anything from anyone. Some of the other guys have big families and lots of mail coming, day after day; a couple of the misfits on this crew have even got sweethearts elsewhere, writing them promises and slipping kisses into charmed envelopes that follow the guys around, planting one on them with big sloppy sound-effects whenever they're not paying attention. It's fucking hilarious. Dean doesn't have a sweetheart and he sure as hell doesn't have a big happy family, so his basket stays empty. It's a wonder they get post up here at all: no owl will fly close enough to risk ending up a miniature scorch mark on the cliff wall. No, some poor sucker has to carry the mail up in a canvas bag, all the way from town. Dean's thinking about all of this as he turns the envelope over and over in his hands, running his thumb along the seams in the paper. Fine paper, thick and heavy, closed with wax. He doesn't recognize the seal: something official, Ministry maybe. There's no return address.

"Love letter?" Stewart asks him, elbowing his way into the mail room. He hooks his bony chin over Dean's shoulder and makes obnoxious, mock kissing sounds. Dean thinks about all the sensible, adult reasons why you should not push someone out a window into a gorge. They're not especially convincing. 

"None of your business," he says.

"Why not?" Stewart's narrow, slightly ferrety face now becomes all ferret. Dean imagines him crouched under a hedge, asking stupid questions. "Come on, you can tell me. Is it full of lipstick?" he smirks. "Your secret life. Lovey-dovey Winchester. Read it aloud, give us a thrill. Does she write especially detailed descriptions of her-"

"Stewart," says Dean. "Get out of my way."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll feed you to the biggest thing I can find," Dean says. Stewart goes, still smacking his lips together and making num-num sounds. 

Dean takes the letter up to his room in the tower attic, a tiny circular space with a few missing shingles and two rattling porthole windows. His bedroll is on the floor, and he's got an old suitcase acting as both dresser and nightstand. It looks like he's been here a few days; he's been here eight months, going on nine. The sky is darkening over- storm coming- and so he lights the room with his wand, and sits cross-legged on the bedroll. His knees throb. Fucking Ironbellies and their inability to roost in flatlands. He slits the envelope and pulls the letter out.

 _Dear Mr. Winchester_ , it begins. Apparently, someone _regrets to inform him_. He's known it was coming for a long, long time: maybe the last twenty years. It doesn't make it hurt less, that knowledge. It doesn't feel any less strange. Dean sits alone so long, staring at the letter in his hand and trying to make the sentences stop blurring together, that his own _lumos_ goes out from lack of interest. After that, he sits in the dark. When the storm starts, the wind knocks the windows around a little in their frames, and the whole attic seems to shake and moan like a conscious creature, one that's pretty tired of life. Dean rummages around in his suitcase and finds it: half a broken mirror. He holds it in one hand and buffs it with the other, then puts his palm flat against it and murmurs the charm. He waits. Eventually, Sam's face floats up from the other side of the mirror, looking young and surprised. His hair's longer. Dean makes a mental note: future harassment on the hair front. Check. Right now, his heart's not in it.

"Dean?" Sam says. It sounds blurry. Well, it's not much of a connection. Sam's face moves and the words come after, thick and garbled. "Dean- are you okay? Is everything okay?"

"Yeah," he says, reflexively. He backtracks. "Uh, no."

"Did you get hurt?" Sam says, voice quaking through the glass. "Did something happen?"

"Yeah," Dean says again, feeling kind of dumb. "Sam, I'm sorry," he says. "I got a letter." He doesn't know how to soften the blow: he's never gotten a soft blow in his life, he wouldn't know how to land one if he tried. "Dad's dead," he blurts out. There's a silence, and Sam's face crumples like a napkin. Dean watches him through the glass, cradling the mirror awkwardly in his hands, trying to think of something to tell him. He can't come up with a single goddamn thing.

"Okay," says Sam at last, softly. "Okay." And then: "How?"

"Accident," Dean says. "They think it was a bad counter-spell. Just a mistake. He was in Tregaron, clearing a cemetery. Some old grave ward festered and caught him too fast."

"He was alone?"

"You know dad," Dean says. "There was nothing anybody could do." He doesn't say anything- and neither did the letter- about the extreme likelihood of dear old dad having been drunk as a skunk at the time. One of those polite omissions, he supposes. A bucket of cheap whiskey did tend to cut down on your reaction time, make it easy for lousy old grave curses to snap back on you like rubber bands. Sam doesn't ask more questions about the accident, but Dean can tell he's not satisfied with the answers. But _so what_ , Dean thinks, a little coldly. Sam wasn't the one cleaning the old man up every weekend for years, so Sam can think what he wants about it.

"I'll get a flight tomorrow," Sam says, earnestly, and now Dean feels like shit for that last uncharitable thought. "You shouldn't be alone."

"No," says Dean. "Don't you have exams?"

"Dean-"

"I said, no." He makes a smile come out of his face. It's weird. "You got your future to worry about. Not me. I'm fine. I'm good. I'm working." Sam huffs and looks upwards, out of sight, like the ceiling is going to give him useful advice on how to deal with dick brothers. Dean waits. And finally Sam shakes his head and says,

"But you'll call, if you need me?"

"I will."

"What are we going to do about," Sam starts, and Dean knows he can't say, _the body_. Can't think of dad as a corpse. Well, that makes two of them. But Dean is going to take care of this. He doesn't need to drag Sam into this crap.

"I'll get him settled with mom," he says. "No point in a funeral." There really isn't. John Winchester spent the last decade of his existence pushing away everyone who ever knew him. Sam looks like he's going to disagree with that- with everything- but Dean shakes his head. "Don't, Sam. There's no point. You don't need to disrupt your life to come here and stand over a six-foot hole for an hour."

"Can we at least-" Sam says, and sighs, and knots a hand in his hair. "He deserved better than this."

"Yeah," says Dean. "We all did."

 

 

Dean lies awake through the storm with two candles burning in an old lantern. It makes strange shapes on the walls and the ceiling, sends deep shadows across the joists. They flicker and dance when the wind whistles through the cracks and makes the small flames shudder. When Dean was four, they lived for a while in a rented cottage outside Llanbedr Pont Steffan, one that used to quake and whistle in big storms, just like this. He can remember the ceiling of that old house, cast in candlelight, looking up from the warm circle of his mother's arms. He used to crawl into bed with them, partly to hear stories. But mostly to feel a heartbeat against his while the wind howled. Dean stares at the grain in the wood and tries not to think about it- about anything- but he can't help it. He can almost hear the soft patter of her voice against his cheek, rising and falling like music. He forgets the color of her eyes sometimes- sometimes the way she used to stand, one hip against the counter, and sometimes even the smell of her heavy wool coat and her fresh-washed hair- but he doesn't forget her voice. It was, then, and maybe always, the sound that ushered in his dreams.

Dean closes his eyes. He is under a blanket in his memories, fabric pulled up under his chin and his face pressed near to hers on the pillow. His father is asleep, snoring slightly, hands loose and expression happy, curled around her on the other side. She's speaking in whispers. He knows that she was already pregnant then, that Sam was on his way into their lives, even though he'd had no idea what exactly that meant at the time. He can almost see her face still, warm and orange in the light of her _lumos_ circling their heads like a firefly, but every now and then she blurs in his vision, like a lost thread of consciousness, something half-remembered.

Bit by bit, he's losing her.

"Once there was a man hunting Twm Siôn Cati," she'd said, quietly, close to his ear. "Wanting revenge for all the tricks he'd played." Her gentle hands were stroking the hair back from his forehead. "And when the man came to Twm's door, there was a beggar there, who said, _bore da_ , good sir, I'll hold your horse while you hunt that rascal." She'd grinned. "But ah, who do you think that beggar really was?"

"Twm!" he'd breathed. 

"It was him. So he rode off on that horse, straight to the man's house. And when he got there he met the man's wife, and said to her, see, I've come here on your husband's horse, with a message from your husband himself. And she said, _oh, what is that_? And he said, _he wants you to give me a bag of gold_!" Dean had laughed silently with a tiny hand over his mouth and squirmed in her arms, delighted. "And he got that bag of gold, and rode away, into the hills, free as a gull." He could picture it then, and now: Twm on horseback, a brave little figure in a flapping dark cloak, vanishing into the mist. Disappearing.

"Did they ever catch him?"

"No," she'd whispered. "No, my love, they never did."

Dean puts his face in his hands and waits for daylight.

 

 

In the morning he packs a bag and slings it over his shoulder and goes up to Anton's roost; Anton listens to him explain for about two minutes, and then claps him on the shoulder and tells him in broken English to get the fuck off the mountain, and not to come back before things are settled. Dean says thank you, and goes. He's in town an hour later, getting a floo ticket to London. The only connected floo in seventy miles, and you've got to crouch down into a hearth and practically stab yourself on the grating. Dean gets smoke up his nose and lands in London with a killer headache. Sometimes- often, always- he misses his fucking car. Salem's not much of a broom town, and he's never gotten comfortable with flying. Never gets used to the fucking floo, either. He's about a foot too tall for it. At the Ministry he waits in line for two hours at the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes before they cheerfully tell him there's been a mistake and he's actually got to go upstairs, to Law Enforcement. Specifically, to Auror Henriksen, room twenty-three, have a pleasant day, sir. Dean manages to contain his desire to explode all the lamps. He goes up, waits again, and at about four-fifteen he's staring miserably at his boot laces, wondering if this is exactly what hell will be like, right down to the stiff metal chairs, when a pair of shiny wingtips slide into view.

"Dean Winchester?"

"Last time I checked," Dean says, and looks up. "Henriksen?" The man extends his hand for Dean to shake, and so Dean shakes it. His grip is tight- he's forty, maybe, but fit, with the characteristically unflappable look of auror management all over his face. He's sharply dressed, in midnight-blue robes with a gold crest on one shoulder. Henriksen leads him into the office, which is just as trim and polished as the man. Dean feels like a bum, standing there in a leather jacket with actual bite marks in it, but whatever. He straightens his shoulders. "I was told my dad- the letter said it was an accident," he says. "So why exactly am I up here?"

"Mr. Winchester-"

"Dean."

"Dean," says Henriksen, slowly. "Do you know what your father was doing in Tregaron?" 

"Yeah," he says. "Doing grunt work for you guys. Clearing cemeteries." Henriksen frowns at him, and Dean feels a hot flush of anger up the back of his neck. "That's right," he says. "Aurors don't like cursebreaking graves. It's messy, and boring, and your clothes start to stink like dead folks. You get your shoes muddy," he adds, with an unsubtle glance downward. "So you hire my dad, and you call him- what was it?" Dean smirks. "A _subcontractor_. You send a subcontractor to the middle of nowhere to take old curses out of muggle cemeteries, and you pay him pennies, and when he blows up, you ask his son stupid questions." Henriksen stares at him. "Have I pretty much covered it?"

"Pretty much," Henriksen says, coolly. "But let me be clear. Your father wasn't working for us. Hasn't worked for us in almost a year."

"What?" 

"There were some- performance issues," Henriksen says.

"He was drunk," Dean says, catching on. "So you sacked him."

"You have a talent for cutting to the heart of the matter, Mr. Winchester," Henriksen says, with a kind of upturn at one corner of his mouth. He's obviously trying to hide his amusement. Alright, Dean kind of likes the guy. Not his fault he's an uptight ministry stooge surrounded by forty floors of uptight ministry stooges. "Look," Henriksen says, finally. "I didn't bring you here to interrogate you, or harass you, or to accuse anyone of anything. We don't know what your father was doing out there. We were just hoping you might."

"I don't," Dean says, honestly. "He said it was a job. Another shitty job in a string of shitty jobs. I didn't ask him any questions." Henriksen nods slowly, like he's paying attention, but his eyes search Dean's face unblinkingly. It's not especially obvious, but it goes on for a beat longer than it should. Dean sighs. "Don't bother trying to read me," he says, and Henriksen startles, like he's been caught digging through the neighbor's trash. "Waste of time," he shrugs. "You won't get anything. They called me the brick wall in school. Natural occlumens. Dad says-" Dean pauses. "Dad used to say, there was just nothing going on up there."

"Just so you understand," Henriksen tells him, stiffly, with a little bit of that calm façade cracking, "legilimency isn't something we use outside of official inquiries."

"Your secret's safe with me, big guy," Dean says. "Are we done here?"

"We're done." Henriksen opens his office door. "You can collect his effects from my assistant."

"And, uh, the body?" The auror gives him a strange look. "There's a family plot, I-"

"Dean," says Henriksen. "There was no body."

"No-"

"There were- remains, of a sort," Henriksen says, awkwardly. "Enough to make a positive identification. And his wand. Broken. But no body. Not as such. His bag was found nearby. We've collected everything for you. Everything there was."

"I understand," Dean says, robotically. Dear God, he really doesn't. "Thanks." He's ushered out and handed a nondescript Ministry sack with an official seal on the side; he doesn't open it. He stuffs it into his own bag and goes down by the elevator and walks mechanically into the nearest floo; it lands him somewhere in Hackney. He's not sure. He hasn't been in London in years. He walks for about ten minutes and finds a pub with a sigil over the door, wizard-owned. He gets a corner booth and starts drinking. Peanuts get put in front of him, later he orders a pie and eats it without really tasting it. He drinks until it's dark out and his head feels heavy like a water balloon, sagging on his neck. No body. No body, Jesus Christ. His dad's not just dead, he's a fucking smear. A stain. A clump of flesh and hair that got scraped off a limestone slab somewhere, and put into a tiny box- Dean loses it, loses everything, staggers out the back door and sinks to his knees behind the rubbish bins and heaves out the beer and the pie and all of it onto the pavement. He stays there on his hands and knees for a while, feeling the cold stones through his jeans, throat raw and stripped. His mouth tastes like bile and his lungs burn. His head throbs. He wonders how the fuck he's ever going to tell Sam. Somebody comes out the back door and Dean starts to shake his head, say that he's fine, say that he doesn't need any attention right now, thanks, when he suddenly gets a boot in the side that sends him sprawling. "The _fuck_ ," he hollers, rolling through a trash bag. He springs back and pulls his wand. He crouches and faces the man- oops, now two men- behind him in the alleyway. Dean shakes his head, tries to clear it a little. He might be obliterated, but by God he's a fucking Winchester. "What the fuck," he says again, angrier.

"This yours?" one of them asks. It's the shorter one, in dirty robes that look like they've been cut off with a blunt knife somewhere around his knees. Dean blinks. Shithead Number One is holding Dean's bag. "This it? All of it?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Dean demands. 

"I'll ask the questions, thanks," the short man giggles. The taller man- in cleaner, better-fitting robes, with a trimmed beard- rolls his eyes.

"We want the book," the tall man says. "Hand it over and go back to your life."

"Book?" Dean asks. 

"Don't play dumb, Winchester," says fun-size. "Daddy's book. We want it. We'll take it, one way or another-" he starts to raise his wand, but Dean's faster, even like this. 

" _Stupefy_ ," he snaps, and the little one goes down like a load of bricks. Big guy casts back and Dean deflects, dropping backwards into a pile of trash and skidding down it to the other side. From behind cover, he hears a shout and then sees the taller man fly over him into a brick wall, backwards, face shocked. The guy slides down it and crumples in a heap at the bottom. Dean pokes his head up to see what the fuck just happened. There's a third guy in the alleyway now. Sort of tall and ragged-looking, dark hair going in about a dozen directions. At first Dean thinks he's wearing some seriously weird robes, but then he realizes: it's just an old-fashioned tan trenchcoat, with the belt hanging down at his sides and the cuffs slightly too long for his arms. He's got his wand out at his side. He turns to face Dean and takes a step forward and Dean casts _expelliarmus_ a hair too late; the guy deflects but doesn't cast back, just keeps coming forward, determined. Dean rolls back behind the trash and stands up, wand out in front, shield charm up and glowing white.

"Stop!" he yells, and the guy does. He stands there with his wand at his side, waiting. "Uh," says Dean. "You with those two?" The guy tilts his head, like a dog that's trying hard to understand you, but also maybe thinks you could be a fucking idiot for not speaking Dog.

"Obviously not," he says. 

"Okay," says Dean. "Turn around and walk the fuck away, then. Scram."

"Scram?"

"Get lost," Dean hisses. Right at that minute, the little guy sits up, wand still in hand, swaying a little and trying to pull together a counter-curse. Without taking his eyes off Dean, the weirdo in the trenchcoat throws his wand up and blasts the guy backwards a foot and a half. There is an awkward silence broken only by the sound of beer bottles clinking as they roll away, out of the recycling bins. "Or," says Dean, thoughtfully, "okay, stick around." The guy nods slightly, like he's genuinely grateful for the _okay_ , then pockets his wand and picks Dean's bag off the ground. He walks over and hands it to Dean, who is still keeping his wand out for the moment, look folks, it's been kind of a bad night so far. Dean takes the bag and slings it back over his shoulder. "Thanks," he says.

"You're Dean Winchester," the man says.

"People keep saying so."

"I knew your father," he says. He pulls something out of his pocket; a battered, leather-bound journal. It bulges with notes, ratty pages sticking out around the edges. "This belonged to him. It's what they were looking for." Dean takes it from him and runs his fingers over the cover, cradles the spine in the curve of his palm. He feels a stab of surprise, and then sadness. The leather is soft and the book fits in his hands perfectly, the way it used to fit in John's. He knows, without looking, what photograph is tucked into the back flap.

"Dad always carried this," he says. "Always. I wondered why it wasn't-" he looks up. "Where'd you find it?"

"He gave it to me. To give to you."

"What? Why?"

"Because your father has a message for you. And it's vitally important that you hear it, and believe it." The guy's eyes- _blue_ , Dean thinks, dumbly, _wow_ , very blue- are practically glowing as he stares at Dean and steps a little closer. They're like freaky little laser beams turned on High.

"Okay," says Dean. "Sure, buddy. Lay it on me."

"Azazel lives," he says. "He's returned." He looks at Dean with a faint smile of triumph on his face, like he's been waiting to say those words for a long time. He waits for Dean to respond, tense as a bowstring. Eager. But Dean says absolutely nothing, and then he says:

"Fuck you."

And walks away.

 

.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is a plea for help," Castiel says. "I'm asking, Dean Winchester, will you help me?" And suddenly, Dean can't look at him. Can't look anywhere but at the hands knotted in his lap, the top of the window frame, out across the landscape and through the passing trees. _Help_. Right. Because Dean is so good at helping people, at protecting them, at keeping them from drinking themselves to death and getting blown up in graveyards. Christ.

Dean wakes up on the overnight train to Bucharest and the trenchcoat guy is sitting across from him on the opposite bench, with John's journal in his hands, reading quietly. For a second Dean thinks it's a dream, but everything's too vivid: the dusty leather jacket slung over his chest like a blanket, the rumble of the train along the tracks, the hot sunlight slanting through the window and the crick in his neck. It's all real. Dean stares at the guy for a while- careful fingers turning the pages slowly, a focused, furrowed brow- and then sits up, folds his coat, and settles back across the bench with his arms crossed. It really says something that this is not the strangest moment of Dean's week.

"Good morning," the guy says, without lifting his gaze from the journal. 

"Here's the thing," Dean says, and now he does look up. "You think you're the first conspiracy theory jerkoff to come tell me that the demon wizard is back on the streets?" Dean leans forward. "You're not. You're one in a long line. My dad used to listen to those people. I'm not my dad. I'm not interested. So look, whoever you are-"

"Castiel," says the guy. When Dean looks confused, he repeats it. "Castiel. My name."

"Great to meet you, Castiel," says Dean. "Now find someplace else to sit."

"Is it that you don't believe," Castiel says, "or that you don't _want_ to believe?" He sounds like he's really asking himself that question, like it's just a rhetorical exercise, but it makes Dean mad.

"Does it matter?" Dean snaps. "If Azazel is back, where the fuck is he, huh? Where's the proof?"

"It's here," Castiel says, and holds up the journal. "It's in your father's research. He was the one who realized it first. But it's in pieces. Disorganized. Coded. I've struggled to make sense of it. But I think you could. I think you're the only one who can." He looks at Dean. "I think your father was killed for what he knew. What he discovered. I only knew him for a few months. You worked with your father for years. You knew him better than anyone. You're the key to his final hunt."

"What is this?" Dean asks. "A job interview?"

"This is a plea for help," Castiel says. "I'm asking, Dean Winchester, will you help me?" And suddenly, Dean can't look at him. Can't look anywhere but at the hands knotted in his lap, the top of the window frame, out across the landscape and through the passing trees. _Help_. Right. Because Dean is so good at helping people, at protecting them, at keeping them from drinking themselves to death and getting blown up in graveyards. Christ. This has to be some kind of elaborate practical joke. But Castiel is still staring at him like he's a branch extending over the creek that Castiel is drowning in. It's frankly fucking unsettling. Dean sighs and looks at his shoes. 

"This is nuts," he says. "I'm nuts, you're probably nuts." He sighs again. "Okay, just hypothetically speaking, what exactly are you looking for?"

"Azazel promised his followers a way to cheat death," Castiel says. He slips a note from between two pages of the journal and unfolds it. It's a hand-drawn map in ballpoint pen, on a sheet of old notebook paper. There are scribbles on it, signs, little notes of arithmancy sketched out along the edges. It's his dad's handwriting, no mistaking that. Castiel holds it out to Dean, and Dean takes it. "He claimed to have returned from the underworld with all its secrets. I think after he was- defeated," Castiel says, sliding his eyes away from Dean for a brief second, "he managed to sustain himself with something he found there."

"Are you-" Dean looks up from the map, which he can't make heads or tails out of, anyway. "Are you seriously talking about Annwn?" Castiel shrugs. "I hate to break this to you. It's not a real place."

"Then maybe it's a state of being," Castiel says. "Either way, he found something, and it kept him alive."

"So-"

"So we find out what that is, and we destroy it."

"Oh," says Dean, lifting his eyes heavenward. "Is that all." He leans his head back until it's resting on the top of the bench seat. He thinks he can feel Castiel staring holes through the bottom of his skull. The guy's got no problem with focus, Dean gives him credit for that. "How do we know that he's back, anyway? Last time there were, you know. Deaths. Disappearances. Panic in the streets." He gestures vaguely between them. "So far, all I've seen were two dipshit thugs in an alleyway. My dad was into all kinds of crap. They could be working for anyone. They could have been after, I don't know." He sighs and scrubs at his face with one hand. "Gambling debts. Grave loot. Something else."

"Just because it's not in the Daily Prophet," Castiel says, "doesn't mean it isn't happening."

"Can't argue with that," says Dean. And then he sits up. Certain circuits have started connecting themselves again, after a lousy night's sleep. "How did you find me?"

"What?" Castiel actually shifts in his seat, like the shifty fuck Dean suspected he was. "I followed you."

"No way," says Dean. "I didn't floo straight to Budapest. I doubled back. Went through a whole different hearth. Because I thought you might pull this crap on me. Explain that."

"I'm very good," Castiel says, flatly. "Can we go back to talking about something that's even remotely relevant?"

"Fine," says Dean, putting his hands up. "Whatever."

"Have you looked through your father's things?" Castiel asks. "There may be something useful there. He gave me the journal three months ago, just before he left London. So the information in this is three months old." Dean can't imagine his dad actually knowing this weirdo. His expression must be pretty plain, because Castiel says, "Your father contacted my organization for information. I was the go-between for a while. We weren't friends, but I respected him." He gives Dean a faint, distant smile. "He was one of the few people who did not think I was insane for talking about the underworld. I think Annwn might be the reason he left me his notes."

"Sounds like him," Dean says. His chest tightens. "What organization?"

"Later," says Castiel. "Do you mind opening his bag?" Dean doesn't really know how to answer that question- _sure, I'd love to sort through my dead father's worldly goods in a train compartment with a total fucking stranger who might try to murder me later_ \- so instead of talking he just slings the bag down from the luggage rack and starts to unload it onto the seat next to him. Castiel watches, raptly attentive. There's the usual shit in his dad's little shoulder-bag: charms in labeled packets, a couple of expired wards on strings that John used to hang around himself when he worked the literal graveyard shift. An extra shirt and a wool hat, threadbare. A knife with some funny sigils on the handle that Dean wraps back up and slides into his own bag. A pocket notebook with some addresses, which Castiel starts checking against the maps and addresses in the journal. And at the bottom of the bag, a black drawstring bag that Dean can barely bring himself to touch. He sits stock-still for a long time, and when he looks up, he finds Castiel looking at him strangely. 

"His wand," Dean says, dully. "Broken, they- said it was broken." Castiel says nothing. So finally Dean reaches down and pulls the bag out. It's lighter than he thinks it ought to be, but then, it's busted junk, now. He remembers holding that wand for the first time, when he was- what, maybe three years old? Ash wood- _rowan gossips, chestnut drones, ash is stubborn, hazel moans_ , he can still hear someone singing- with a core of dragon heartstring. It felt heavy in his chubby little hands, it felt sturdy and strong. He remembers the first thing his father taught him with that wand- how to make a flower uncurl. A charm he used to use for Mary, to bring home new daisies from the field. Dean pulls the drawstring and lets the broken halves fall into his palm. He stares at it. And then his hand clenches around it. "Son of a _bitch_ ," he hisses. Accident, his ass. "Son of a fucking _bitch_."

"What?" Castiel asks, alarmed. "Dean, what?"

"This is not," says Dean, "my father's wand."

 

 

In Bucharest Dean leads Castiel to an old floo network connection on the east side of Cișmigiu Gardens; he chats with the owner for a minute in his halfway crappy Romanian, then slips him a couple of coins to get this trip marked off the books. Dean's not sure exactly where they're going. And Castiel doesn't give him an address but a code word, written on a tiny scrap of paper. Apparently, it's all cloak and dagger from here on out. 

"When you're finished with the paper, eat it," Castiel says. Dean stares at him until Castiel looks uncomfortable. "That was a joke," he says.

"Wow," says Dean. "It sucked."

Castiel vanishes into the flames and Dean sighs and takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes and says the code word, and feels himself get viciously pulled through fourth-dimensional space like a lemon through a vacuum tube. He lands in a dirty fireplace not unlike the one he just left. Castiel is there, dusting himself off with a little bristle brush, and there's another man, enormously tall and covered in- well, covered in beard. Long scraggly beard that goes in a few directions, and swings well down to his chest. He's talking with Castiel in low, urgent tones, and when he sees Dean, he smiles cautiously and then excuses himself out a side door. It shuts behind him, and Dean looks around. Another dingy kitchen with candles melted over every flat surface. Old-school magical pubs are pretty much the same everywhere, Dean thinks. "Where exactly are we?" he asks.

"Hogsmeade," says Castiel, like he expects Dean to know exactly where that is. Dean shrugs. "Close to Hogwarts." Ah. Well, he thought it sounded familiar. Dean briefly mourns the loss of the money he spent on that pointless train ticket. "Oh, right," Castiel says, after a beat. "You went to Salem."

"Go Black Cats," says Dean. "You go to Hogwarts?"

"No," Castiel says. And then: "There's a safe house not far from here. We can settle in tonight and make our plans. I think we ought to start with the last place your father was seen alive."

"Great," says Dean, under his breath. "Awesome."

They trudge across the countryside under a disillusionment charm, invisible to basically everything, so that even the bugs fly around them in a kind of dazed, sideways manner. Dean almost steps on a rabbit that doesn't sense them coming. "Who taught you that one?" Dean asks. "It feels extra strength." He's genuinely impressed, but Castiel doesn't look genuinely flattered. He looks caught, again. Cagey. "Seriously, I feel like the invisible man under this thing."

"I practiced," Castiel says, stiffly. "And it doesn't do anything for sound, so feel free to keep making noise." Dean scowls but stop talking. He figures there's nobody around for miles and Castiel's being a fucking baby about it, but he keeps quiet and contents himself with mimicking Castiel silently behind his back while they walk. He stops when he realizes it's the kind of thing he knows Sam used to do to him. They make it to the house before dark, and Castiel gets them through the wards with a couple of sigils drawn into the dirt. He shows Dean how they're made, then scuffs them out with one foot. The house itself is another classic wizard wreck, with torn curtains and missing shingles and a hole in the floor through which Dean can stare down into the basement. He doesn't bother complaining about it, because it's not the shittiest place he's stayed in this year. This month. Castiel disappears into the kitchen while Dean lets himself slump into one of the ugly old armchairs, feeling sort of confused and defeated by everything. After a while, Castiel comes out. He's taken the trenchcoat off for the first time. He's wearing a faded button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up a little, and he's holding two mugs in one hand. Dean notices, for the first time, that there are faint scars raised along his forearms. Well, okay, one more thing to puzzle out about this guy. File it away for later, when Dean isn't so fucking exhausted in his bones. "Tea?" Castiel says. 

"Yeah, thanks," says Dean. Castiel brings it out on an actual tray and sets it on the table between them; somehow, he's found a teapot that doesn't leak, two mugs with the handles intact, and an unopened roll of biscuits. Dean eats and drinks like he's been on a hundred-league march. It's strange, he wasn't hungry until he started eating, and now he can't stop. He finishes half the roll and then hands it back over to Castiel, sheepishly. Castiel hands it back. 

"I'm fine. Go ahead."

"We've been together the whole day," Dean says. "Neither of us ate anything. Eat your half." Castiel looks like he's going to argue the point. "Shut up and eat," Dean says, and Castiel does. He shoves a whole biscuit in his mouth and then another, and gives Dean these weird, pleased glances. "Is there anything else around here?" They go into the kitchen and rummage together and come up with two tins of sardines, a can of peas and a box of powdered milk. They split the sardines and the peas, both cold, and Dean eyes the powdered milk for a long, tense, pathetic second before saying, "I give up. Where should I sleep?" There are two bedrooms upstairs; Castiel leaves the bigger room for Dean. He doesn't need to, and Dean tells him so.

"I don't care," Castiel says. He really sounds like he doesn't, like he thinks Dean is being a moron. "I'm used to sleeping anywhere."

"Okay," Dean says. "Goodnight." He closes the door and sits on the edge of the bed for a long time, listening to the sounds of someone else brushing their teeth and shutting the lights off and wandering away down the hall. If Dean closes his eyes, it's kind of like being back at Bobby's, hearing Sam's bare feet on the hardwood floors, the sound of the taps turning, the rattle and thump of old pipes. He ought to call Sam, tell him what's happened. He ought to tell him everything. Dean lies down on his side and thinks about that, about what he would say, where he would start. _Sam_ , he thinks, I think dad was murdered. He wasn't alone up there. Somebody left a broken wand in that graveyard. Maybe dad gave as good as he got, and maybe that stain on the rocks wasn't dad at all. But Dean doesn't want to hope. Hope is pretty fucking fragile, when you get right down to it. Hope is eggshells and paper-mâché. 

Just before he drifts under he thinks he sees her, there on the edge of the bed. He knows he's already dreaming, then, already gone. _Dyn bach, go to sleep_ , she says. Go to sleep. See you in the morning, meet you in the daylight, when the birds are singing. 

See you then.

 

 

.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You ever turn your friends green?" Dean asks. "Give them cat ears?"
> 
> "No," Castiel says. 
> 
> "Come on, not once?"
> 
> "Not ever," says Castiel.

In the morning Dean wakes to the sound of shitty old pipes choking on water, thumping arrhythmically against the inside of the walls. He can hear the faint sound of splashing and then a creak as the taps are turned off. Castiel, taking a shower. He assumes. Dean rubs his eyes and sits up and fumbles for his jeans, somewhere in the pile of clothes he pulled off and dropped last night. He drags them up his legs and zips up and opens the door to the hallway, hoping there will still be enough hot water left to scrub away some of the floo powder and sweat and misery that he can feel hanging on his skin like a fucking poncho. He's about one full step into the hallway when the bathroom door opens and Castiel comes out quickly in a cloud of steam, wrapped in nothing but a towel around his waist. Castiel sees him and startles, eyes going wide and shocked, but Dean barely notices what's happening on his face, because _Jesus Christ_. His body. There are scars _everywhere_ , a web of them that criss-cross the skin of his chest and his ribcage and belly, long slashing scars in layers, some still pink and fresh and others a faded white, a topographical map of brutality. Nothing's escaped: not his fine collarbones or the toned swells of his arms, nowhere untouched.

"What-" Dean starts, and Castiel just turns blankly and vanishes into the other room, shutting the door with a firm snap, leaving Dean baffled. Dean feels embarrassed, like an intruder caught peeping, and then reflexively angry: what the hell did he expect, walking around practically naked, if he's so fucking self-conscious? Dean huffs his way into the bathroom and turns the taps on. He tries to stay angry through his five-minute shower, but he can't. It's hard to summon up the energy to be mad at Castiel, mostly because of those horrific marks. He just can't believe that anybody could _live_ through getting them. He can't help but think about the scars while he washes and dresses, touching his own skin unconsciously now and again. He's caught by the raw angry curl of them, the way they twisted around his chest and stomach, the _intent_ , like someone was trying to get inside. To tear out his heart. By the time Dean's dried and changed and come downstairs, Castiel is in the kitchen, making tea. He's wearing a button-up shirt done all the way to his neck. Unlike yesterday night, he's buttoned the sleeves up, too. He doesn't make a sound as Dean comes in and sits at one of the kitchen chairs, doesn't act like Dean is even there. But Dean sees him put his hands against the countertop for a second, steadying himself, before he turns around.

"Tea?" Castiel offers, completely neutral. Dean nods and Castiel hands him a steaming mug, handle-first. Dean takes it and blows across the surface, watching little tendrils of steam rise from the edge and disappear into the cooler air. Castiel sips from his own mug like a condemned man, waiting for Dean to ask.

"So," Dean says. Castiel's face stays perfectly, unnaturally still. Dean wonders how the hell he does that. "How are we getting to Tregaron?" Dean blows on his tea again, then takes a sip and winces. Fuck, so impatient. Always his problem. "Please tell me we're not gonna walk all the way there under your super-strength shield." 

Castiel stares at him.

"No," he says, at last. "No, I thought we'd take the train. Glamoured, in case anyone's watching for you." 

"Ugh," says Dean. "You'll have to do mine. I'm shit at real ones."

"Real ones?"

"Well, I could give you horns and a tail," Dean says. "Or give you lizard skin, make you look like a yeti. But I never practiced the basic stuff. Age spots, sideburns, whatever. I used to give my little brother antlers sometimes," he says. He thinks about Sam, not quite making it through the doorway, hollering his name. Castiel is staring. Dean ducks his head, feeling like a complete ass. "Stupid, I guess."

"It sounds-" Castiel pauses, then gives him a faint smile. "Fun."

"You ever turn your friends green?" Dean asks. "Give them cat ears?"

"No," Castiel says. 

"Come on, not once?"

"Not ever," says Castiel. He pushes off the counter and stands in front of Dean. "Let's get started." He puts his hands up, close to Dean's face, and then hesitates, like there's a sharp edge he's afraid of touching. "Do you mind?" Dean shakes his head, and Castiel slips his fingers under Dean's chin, his thumb curving around Dean's jaw. He turns Dean to the left and right just a notch, back again, thoughtful. His hands are warm and softer than they look. Castiel studies the surface of Dean's face, the curves and angles, and pulls his wand out of his pants pocket. " _Vulticulos_ ," Castiel murmurs, and Dean feels the charm creep across his skin like a puff of air, settling into his pores. It makes him shiver. He goes into the bathroom to look in the mirror while Castiel does his own disguise, downstairs; it's a shock to stare at his new, fake face. He's got a narrow, lean jaw with froggy, bulging eyes, thick eyebrows, thin lips. He's actually kind of ugly, in a nondescript, unmemorable way. Dean pinches his cheeks and sticks out his tongue. When he goes downstairs, there's a grey-haired man in the kitchen, wrinkled and dull-eyed, sipping his tea.

"Whoa," says Dean. Castiel- he knows it's Castiel, because the guy makes that pinched, _what is your problem_ , face- tilts his head. "Is there anything you're not good at?"

"Yes," says Castiel. He puts his mug down in the sink. "Plenty of things."

 

 

They're in Tregaron by dinnertime, after two trains and two buses, and Dean's stomach is already growling while they walk to the edge of town. Castiel steers them to a dilapidated muggle pub and gets them a couple of pints and a couple of bowls of stew with an indistinguishable meat at the bottom. They drink and eat and watch the rest of the patrons- all five of them, nobody under sixty- and Dean wonders just how much of a goose chase this is going to end up being. The graveyard's on the outskirts, surrounding a sturdy medieval church topping a rocky hill. It's a stocky, square building with the look of a fortress, and one rising tower: God's garrison, Dean thinks. They walk there under another one of Castiel's dissembling charms, even though there's only a couple of cars on the road and a handful of people walking home here and there. Castiel trudges through the graveyard with his head up, while Dean keeps looking behind them. There's nobody else around. They work their way to the back, the side hidden by the bulky body of the church, and Castiel stops in his tracks. He tilts his head up again, face against the cooling evening air, and Dean is struck by the strangest thought.

"Are you-" he says, and Castiel narrows his eyes at Dean. "Are you _sniffing_?"

"Sinuses," Castiel says. And then his head jerks to the side. "Over there," he says. "That- looks significant." He walks faster, towards a short ring of broken stones, bleached and worn-looking, much older than the rest of the other graves. He's putting his foot between them when Dean suddenly grabs out and hauls him back with an urgent _Cas-_ but it's too late. A web of green light snakes up and takes hold of Castiel bodily, spins him into the circle and hurls him down against the flat stone in the center. Dean casts quickly, easing the knots, but Castiel's still struggling in the center, trying to get at his wand, trying to push up on his hands and knees, as the web writhes and twists and crushes him flat. 

" _Dissolvo_!" Dean hisses, and the web thins a little. Dean swears under his breath and draws a quick unbinding sigil with the tip of his wand on the closest stone. " _Finite circumretio_." The light of the web flickers and dims, then evaporates, and Castiel drops bonelessly to the ground, breathing heavily. Dean reaches forward and grabs Castiel by the sleeve of his coat, lugs him out of the circle onto the grass. "Hey," Dean says, holding him upright. "Hey, you alright? Come on, talk to me, say something," he says. Castiel glares up at him.

"I'd like to breathe first," he snaps, and then looks briefly ashamed. "Dean-" he starts, but Dean just grins and claps him on the shoulder.

"Yeah, you're fine," Dean says, and gets up. He surveys the stones and walks around the outside of the ring in a slow circle, stooping to trace the unbinding mark on the back of each one. When he traces the last one there's an almost audible pop, like the release of held pressure, an exhalation. Dean pats the last stone with the flat of his palm. In this, at least, he knows exactly what he's doing. Nothing like a good old fashioned grave-scrubbing to screw your head on straight. "Okay," he says to Castiel, who's back on his feet. "We're clear."

"What was that?"

"Fisher's snare," Dean says. "Pretty common. They don't trigger 'til after dark. Kind of a big keep-away sign." He looks down at the center stone. "Shouldn't have been so fresh, though," he says, frowning. "Mostly they just swing you around a little, pull you over. Give you a scare. Old charms like that, they fade. They're meant to."

"It didn't feel faded," Castiel says. Dean sees there's an angry red mark on his cheek where his face hit stone. He doesn't seem to notice it. Even though he still looks sort of stunned. "Thank you," Castiel adds. 

"Sure," says Dean. He kneels down by the center stone, traces the worn-away letters with his fingertips. "What's the name of this church?"

"Saint Caron's."

"I think maybe this is him," he says. "And somebody's been digging here." Dean gets his fingers under the broken edge of the stone, braces himself, and heaves it up; it goes pretty easily, and the earth is still damp and loose underneath. He slides the stone over and looks up at Castiel. "Don't suppose you've got a shovel handy?" 

"Uh," says Castiel. 

"Are you _serious_?" Dean asks. Castiel gives him another narrowed stare, but then he pulls a compact folding shovel out of his right-hand pocket. "Holy shit. You put an undetectable extension on your coat." Castiel shifts, looking sort of embarrassed, like he expects Dean to mock him for it. "That is fucking _awesome_ ," Dean says. They take turns digging; Dean digs faster in short spurts, heaving huge piles of earth out, but Castiel digs steadily, uncomplainingly, at his own pace. When it's his turn to climb out of the hole Dean watches Castiel dig out of the corner of his eye, trying not to feel sort of creepy. Castiel's taken off the trenchcoat and the back of his shirt is slightly damp with sweat, even though the air's getting colder and colder by the hour. Dean can't help but picture the skin under that shirt- inches of perfect flesh divided by white scars, a network of them, a kind of textured canvas. Fuck. He needs to not go there. Something keeps bothering him about those scars, like something he's supposed to remember, but for the moment it's not coming. Anyway, it's really, really none of his business. He turns around and pretends to scan the graveyard perimeter for danger. Behind him, Castiel's shovel rises and falls rhythmically. There's a clunking noise.

"Got something," says Castiel. Dean kneels down at the edge, and watches Castiel brush the dirt away from the edges of a stone casket. There are indentations on the sides and Castiel uses them to haul the box up and hand it over to Dean. The way he lifts it, Dean's not expecting it to be quite so fucking heavy.

"Whoa," says Dean. He lets it thump down onto the dirt. The lid's loose, but he draws an unbinding on the top anyway, hopefully to counter-spell anything that might be waiting inside. He shifts the top off, and finds- nothing. Well, a decaying cloth with stains on it, probably crusted over from old organic human remains. But that's it. Otherwise, it's completely empty.

"Saint's bones," says Castiel. He is still standing in the hole. "So that's what they were after."

"What for?"

"I don't know." Castiel looks thoughtful. "There are too many possibilities. You can heal with saints' bones. You can weave a localized protective charm. That's what most of these village churches did," he adds. And then Castiel's expression goes grim. "Or- you can summon the saint himself, if you don't mind fraying your soul on the edges of the afterlife."

"You think Azazel wants to dial-a-saint?"

"Like I said," Castiel tells him. He grabs onto the edge of the hole and heaves himself up, rises until he's standing above Dean; shirt muddy, pants ruined, face smeared with dirt. "I don't know."

"Well," says Dean. "Whatever he wanted, he got it." He leans over and drops the empty casket back into the hole, lets it thump down carelessly into the loose soil. "Dad didn't stop him."

"We don't know that."

"I think we do." Dean shrugs. "Let's close this up."

 

 

They get two rooms in a hotel in the middle of town. If Dean was surprised by the shovel in Castiel's pocket, he is twice as surprised by the casual way Castiel spells the desk clerk into handing over two sets of keys. The desk clerk's face goes dreamy and blissful and he apologizes for the confusion about the bill and tells them to have sweet dreams, and Dean follows Castiel up the stairs, hissing, "Did you just fucking _imperio_ that guy?"

"No," Castiel says, glancing down the hall. "Keep your voice down. It was a confundus. I merely suggested to him that we'd already paid."

"Oh," says Dean. "Well. Uh, goodnight," he says, at his door. Castiel nods but doesn't say anything back, and slips into his own room. 

It's a nice hotel, kind of dated and overly fussy, but Dean doesn't mind the garish floral wallpaper or the bric-a-brac on little shelves, not when there's an actual mattress and clean white sheets to fall into. He showers first to get the grave muck off himself, charms his jeans clean- well, clean _er_ \- and drapes his clothes over the armchair. And then it's just Dean lying alone in a strange room, in the dark and under the covers and trying not to drum his fingers on his chest. He tries to sleep and tries again and then just gives up and charms the room for privacy and kneels in front of the fireplace grate with his wand, whispering a call into the ashes, tapping them twice, and watching as they stir to life, flickering orange and slowly settling into a deep red burn. Dean sits by the side of the fireplace- a little too close, feeling the crisp heat on his face and neck and the tang in the back of his throat- and then finally Bobby's face comes into view, groggy and coughing and grumbling and red-bearded by the fire. "Hey Bobby," says Dean. Bobby's face- even distorted by the flames- scowls at him.

"Do you know what the hell time it is?" Bobby demands. "What's going on?"

"Got a question," Dean says. "You know of any spell that could leave scars all over the body? And I mean, all over. Like, hundreds of scars." Bobby's silent for a second, except for the crackling noises from the fire. Dean can see him chewing the edge of his lip.

"Sectumsempra, maybe," says Bobby. "But even that can be healed, you get dittany on it fast enough. Wouldn't necessarily leave a mark."

"Anything else?"

"Not that I know of." Bobby stares at Dean for a second, then sighs. Little sparks shoot up from the exhalation. "I'll look into it."

"Thanks, Bobby."

"Dean-" the face in the fire goes softer. "You okay, boy?" Dean doesn't know what to say. "You getting into something?"

"Nothing I can't handle," Dean says.

"Yeah, right," says Bobby. "Watch your ass."

"You too."

And then they're just ashes again.

 

.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm going to wipe the floor with you," Dean says.
> 
> "Isn't quidditch played outdoors?"
> 
> "Dear _God_ ," says Dean, and then: "Are you fucking with me?" Castiel's mouth is twitching at the corner. "You are totally fucking with me."
> 
> . . . . . . . .

On Dean's eleventh birthday there was an owl sitting on top of a broken fence-post in Bobby's yard. It was tawny and soft-looking, enormous, with gold eyes that watched Dean come down the porch steps, like Dean was a fieldmouse, something small and edible. It wasn't the first owl Dean had ever seen: his mother used to have one. It was white with black-tipped pinions. Dean remembers staring at that owl on the fence and being reminded, vividly, of Blodwen circling far over his head, just under the clouds. A speck of white, disappearing. His mother's voice calling her back. He doesn't know where the owl went when she died. Bobby didn't keep owls, but ravens: a small flock of them, that hovered around the shipyard and the house and the barn and sat on Bobby's shoulders and nipped his beard, and talked to each other in gurgling croaks that sounded almost human. Dean and Sam loved the ravens. But Dean remembers being hypnotized by the owl, fascinated, drawn to it. He remembers it was holding a letter.

"Hogwarts," Dean had said. "In- Scotland?" He'd been sitting at Bobby's kitchen table for half an hour now, while Bobby read and re-read the letter, and then talked calmly at Dean about Dean's future, Dean's abilities. Dean's dreams. "Dad went to school here in Salem."

"Your mother went to Hogwarts," Bobby had reminded him. "Your grandparents, too." Dean had never met them- never even seen a photograph, that he could remember- but he knew that they were dead. Everyone was, besides John and Sam and Bobby. "There's a place for you there if you want it. You're entitled to it." Dean had thought about it for a long time, swinging his feet and staring down at the tile of Bobby's kitchen floor, and then he'd said, slowly, carefully:

"But not Sam."

"No," Bobby had said. He'd taken his cap off and sighed and scratched the back of his neck. "No, not Sam."

"Okay," Dean had told him, and slid off the chair. "You can tell Hogwarts to shove it." And then after Bobby's half-hearted scolding- _you watch your language, boy_ \- he'd gone out to throw peanut shells at the owl until it flew away. So. Back then: peanut shells, owls, faint dreams he can't remember as soon as he wakes up. Dean is always dreaming about that owl, his mother's owl, white and downy. About those clouds. 

Now, here: a knock at the door. Castiel, on the other side of it.

"Dean?" he says, through the wood. "Dean?"

"I'm coming," says Dean. "Hold on." He groans and puts a pillow over his face. Wishing for another hour, or twenty minutes. Ten. There's no sound from the hallway: he can picture Castiel standing too close against the door, stone-faced, waiting. With that enormous coat hanging off his shoulders, and his wand slipped up into his sleeve. Careful and serious and probably wondering why the fuck Dean wants to linger in bed when there's clearly more disgusting grave dirt they could be busy turning over. Ugh. _Someday_ , Dean thinks, somebody is going to have to show that guy what a good time looks like, so he'd at least be able to identify it in a lineup.

They leave when the front desk clerk goes for a bathroom break, and walk across town in the general direction of the bus stop. It won't be there for twenty minutes or so, so they end up sitting on a stone wall by the side of the road. Over breakfast (coffee from the hotel and two bakery rolls from Castiel's pocket; Dean doesn't ask) Castiel tells him that he's gotten a message from London.

"Ollivander," he says, eagerly. "He's figured out whose broken wand we have."

"Oh yeah?"

"Margaret Masters," he says. "One of Azazel's new lieutenants. We've tracked her since she reappeared in London last year, but she lost us in Dublin a few months ago." 

"Margaret Masters," Dean repeats, turning the name over in his mind. And then it clicks: "Meg," he says. "Son of a bitch, _Meg_."

"You know her?"

"Kind of," says Dean. "It's a little hard to explain." Castiel stares at him. "Okay, so you know I lived in Salem. I've still got family there. My brother. Sam." Castiel nods, and Dean remembers that this guy probably has some kind of creepy bio on him already. It makes Dean's face go hot and cold, makes him feel embarrassed, wrong-footed. Dean wads up his napkin and flings it into the ditch, and then feels like a litterbugging asshole. "Yeah, right, you already know that. I don't want to bore you. You already know all that shit about me, and I don't know a fucking thing about you." 

"You know some things," Castiel says, very quietly. Dean figures he means the scars. But boy, is it too early in the day to think about having that conversation. And Dean is not going to be the one to start it. "I'm sorry," says Castiel. He really does look sorry. "I know some things about you, but I don't- please, go ahead. Tell me about your brother," he says. "Please." Dean looks away.

"My brother," he says at last, "is a, uh, not. He's- got no magical abilities."

"He's a squib?"

"Yeah, he's a fucking squib," says Dean, sharply.

"You don't like that word."

"No shit," says Dean. He rubs a hand against the back of his neck. "Anyway. He's a smart kid, smarter than me. He would have been a hell of a wizard. I used to bring home my arithmancy stuff and have him look at it, because he was better at the equations-" he glances at Castiel. "Sorry, whatever, you don't care about that."

"Don't presume," says Castiel. "Go on."

"He's a good kid," Dean says. "But back when he was maybe fourteen, fifteen years old- he comes home with this girl from school, brings her over for dinner. He said she was a transfer student, didn't have any friends, and Sam's like- he's a sucker like that, takes in strays. He thought he was looking out for her. But I knew there was something wrong about her, something off. I told myself I was just being an overprotective dick, cause the kid had to grow up sometime. And then one night I find her in our garage with a fucking _wand_. It was a huge fight, took out part of the scrapyard. I got a chunk out of her shoulder and she just changes in front of me, like shifts into a whole other person- she's screaming curses at me and all I could think was, _you're no fifteen-year-old_." Dean shakes his head. "Metamorphmagus," he says. "She was pretending to be some schoolgirl to get close to Sam." Castiel looks grim. "I never knew for sure, but I always figured it was about Azazel. We used to get freaks looking for us sometimes, every couple of years. A lady tried to cut a lock of Sam's hair off, once. Called him some stupid name, the boy who lived. He was just a fucking kid." Dean exhales through his mouth, loudly. It's not quite a sigh but he suddenly feels tired, bone-weary. He misses Sam. "Sickos."

"Your brother was the last living person to see Azazel in the flesh," says Castiel. "In a way, it makes him a target."

"He was a baby," Dean says. "He didn't see shit. What the fuck would anybody want from him?" Castiel shrugs.

"I don't know."

The bus is finally approaching from over the hill; Dean can see it, rocking around the corners, a lone spot of movement in the morning stillness. He stands up and feels Castiel do the same next to him, shifting his center of gravity. Castiel's huff of breath makes faint little trails of steam in the colder air, and Dean watches it disappear. 

"You ever gonna tell me who you really are?" Dean asks. Castiel looks at him for a long time, almost until their ride pulls up to the corner. And then he looks away at the bus, at the shining windows reflecting the sun, at the door that's folding open.

"I want to," says Castiel.

It's mostly lost in the sound of the engine, but Dean hears it. Or at least he thinks he does. He thinks about that all the way back to the safe house.

 

 

Dean makes Castiel stop at the market in Hogsmeade on the way back, so he can buy some sausages and a brick of cheese and a couple of loaves of bread. Castiel insists on doing a hasty disguise for both of them, so Dean finds himself shopping as an apple-cheeked redhead. Castiel ages up his own face and changes his hair, but he doesn't change the trenchcoat. Dean watches him pace up and down the shop, scowling, and thinks about how much he looks like a serial murderer.

"Dude, relax," Dean hisses. "You're scaring the locals."

"We should go," Castiel says. "Anyone could-"

"Look," says Dean, "I'm starving. You're probably starving. And I'm not eating that ancient can of powdered milk you found last time," he adds. "If I have to squat in that dump, I'm not going to do it hungry." Castiel shrugs and takes a couple of tins of sardines off the shelf, then leads Dean through the produce and gets a bag of apples, a couple of cucumbers and a tomato. At the counter Castiel takes out this weather-beaten leather wallet and starts counting out knuts until Dean edges in and hands the clerk a couple of sickles from his jeans pocket. "Keep the change," Dean says, and pulls Castiel out. In the street, carrying the bags, Dean watches Castiel out of the corner of his eye. There are fraying edges on his sleeves, threads coming loose around his buttons. How did Dean really not notice it before? Maybe it's the upright way he holds himself, the stick-in-the-ass posture that makes him seem a lot more presentable than he really is. "Do you get paid for this?" Dean asks, when they're out of the village. "This secret agent bullshit, do you get a paycheck?" Castiel looks at him narrowly, like Dean just asked the dumbest possible question. But then he sighs and looks at his feet, trudging through the tall grass.

"I work for the Order of the Griffin," he says, finally. "Officially, we don't exist."

"Just like _officially_ , Azazel is pushing up daisies." Dean swings the bag of groceries up onto his shoulder. "Okay."

"It was founded just after your- after his defeat," Castiel covers. "In case he rose again, or another like him. We have members in the Ministry, in the teaching staff at Hogwarts. And in other, less savory places."

"Why the cloak and dagger, why don't you go public? We've got evidence."

"Not enough," says Castiel. "The fallout could ruin things for us. We need our members to stay where they are. Hidden, at their posts."

"Sitting on their asses," Dean corrects. "While you run around graveyards, getting half-strangled. Some shit never changes, I guess," he says. "There are always grunts in a war." 

"I'm not a grunt," Castiel says. His voice is low, dangerous. It stands the small hairs up on the back of Dean's neck, sets his heart racing a little faster, and he's not exactly sure why. _Jesus_ , this guy can be scary if he wants to be, Dean thinks. "The work I do is valuable. And someone has to do it. I didn't join up to be paid. I joined- and anyway, there's not exactly a Ministry budget line for us," Castiel finishes, coldly.

"Right." Dean looks at that worn-out coat again. "Do they at least give you expenses?"

"They've given me a place to live," says Castiel. 

"Oh, yeah?" Dean says. "Better digs than that shitty safe house, I hope." But Castiel just stares at him and suddenly Dean gets it. "Oh," he says. "Holy crap, you _live_ there?"

"Why not?" He sounds defensive. "It's warded. It's got four walls."

"Barely," says Dean. At Castiel's angry glare, he holds one hand up between them. "Look. I'm just saying, you're out here risking your life for these chuckleheads. They could at least give you a place with functional windows. You deserve better." Castiel looks briefly surprised, but doesn't say anything to that. He just stomps next to Dean without speaking for a while. And then they're there, and Dean asks to draw the unlocking sigils this time, to be sure he's got them memorized. He gets it right on the first try and the wards fall away, power dropping from a threatening murmur to a low, pleasant hum. "Hey, I'm a quick learner," he says, and Castiel gives him one of those weird self-conscious smiles. "After you." Dean puts some food together and they eat it in the kitchen with the wireless on; the Hollyhead Harpies are demolishing some team from Wigtown, wherever the fuck that is. "I've never really gotten into quidditch," Dean admits, through a mouthful of cheese sandwich. It's like the dam has burst, and he's just telling Castiel all this dumb shit about his life. He doesn't know why, except that he's never met anyone who listens so intently. Maybe that's it. Castiel watches him talk like the stuff he's saying is actually important, like Dean is genuinely interesting. "It's not that big in Salem."

"No?"

"The academy has a quodpot team. I used to take Sam to watch them practice." He remembers Sam's delight, the way he used to sit out in the stands, hour after hour, face going red from the cold, eyes like saucers. Because hey, what twelve-year-old doesn't like seeing things explode? They used to walk back through town, eating the last bits of popcorn out of the bag, arguing about player positions and whether or not it was theoretically possible to put the quod into the pot at the exact second it blew to pieces, and would that count as a point or a loss. 

"I've never played either," Castiel says. 

"Well," says Dean, "now I _know_ you grew up in the woods. Seriously, never? Your buddies never got you onto a broom, threw a quaffle at your head?"

"No," says Castiel.

"Alright, well, I challenge you." He points across the table at Castiel. "When this is over, we stick a fork in the demon wizard, we're gonna play a game."

"Okay," says Castiel. His eyes are bright, oddly happy. Dean can hardly look at them, but he also doesn't really want to look away. "Challenge accepted."

"I'm going to wipe the floor with you," Dean says.

"Isn't quidditch played outdoors?"

"Dear _God_ ," says Dean, and then: "Are you fucking with me?" Castiel's mouth is twitching at the corner. "You are totally fucking with me."

In bed later, listening to the house creak and sigh a little in the wind, Dean lies half-awake and replays those moments, watching the smile creep up the corners of Castiel's face, seeing the edges of his eyes crinkle, his hands curl around his cup. It's one of the nicest evenings Dean's had in a long time, just sitting and talking with someone, making them laugh. And Dean puts his face into the pillow, ashamed, because who the fuck thinks that stuff after trudging around in a graveyard, walking through a bunch of weeds, eating a shitty cheese sandwich for dinner? There's a fucking demon wizard wandering the moors and Dean is thinking about Castiel's shabby coat and unruly hair, the way he felt under Dean's hands when he hauled him out of the curse-net. _Fucking focus, Winchester_ , he thinks. He makes himself think about Sam instead, about Meg Masters. He can see her there in the garage, talking into a pool of oil in a pan, wand shoved into her back pocket. The way her features slid off her face, the way she vanished into the wind. He wonders if she's really dead, if the broken wand was evidence that his dad got a good hit in. Dean hopes so.

Before he falls asleep he hears footsteps in the hall, paused outside his door. He hears Castiel's voice again in his head: _I want to_. And then Dean's gone, melted into a long sad dream that he won't remember in the morning.

 

 

.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And if somebody tries to gank me outside a pub again?"
> 
> "You can handle it," Castiel says.
> 
> "Fine," says Dean, slumping backwards into the sofa. "I'll go. Whatever. Nice to know you're so concerned about my safety." Castiel gives him a strangely dark look, face drawn and eyes hard, and then jerks his gaze away at the floor. Like he is secretly angry at Dean- or at something- but unwilling to demonstrate just _how_ angry. Frankly, it's fucking baffling.
> 
> "Your safety," says Castiel, "is exactly what I have in mind."
> 
>  
> 
> . . . . . . . .

Dean wakes just after six, with faint light coming through the curtains. There's no sound in the house, nothing creaking or rattling, no boards groaning underfoot. No sound outside, except muted birdsong: they're too far from the world here, and the wards are tight. For a second he almost misses the continual howl of the wind in that shitty tower, the low rumble in the rock that meant the dragons were stirring. Or the noise of fifteen wizards climbing groggily out of their bunks and rustling around for breakfast, arguing with each other, throwing tin cups in the sink. Even the sound of that shitbag Stewart singing over dish duty- massacring the hits of the Weird Sisters- would have been something. Dean sighs and rubs his eyes and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

He's quiet as he washes up, splashes some water on his face and pulls on yesterday's clothes. But quiet or not, Castiel doesn't stir. Dean goes downstairs and eats some of the cheese. After a minute of arguing with himself, he eats an apple, too. He's the head of the family now, on a technicality. Probably time to get some fiber into his diet. _Sure_ , Dean thinks. He's got to be nice and healthy when he gets murdered by some wackadoodle in a graveyard. Dean rolls his eyes at himself and takes another apple into the living room, to eat while he looks over his dad's journal again. He's almost finished decoding the second section of the notes, but he can't figure out the scrawled diagram in the margins. It looks like a tree, with small knots of branches that swirl above the top of the page. A family tree, maybe? Or else a sigil, a marking of some kind that they ought to be hunting down. Dean jots down some thoughts on a spare page, traces the tree a few times, and works on copying down his translations. He's absorbed in it when Castiel comes downstairs, fully dressed but barefoot, looking strangely exhausted, like somebody beat the crap out of him in his sleep.

"Good morning," Castiel says. It's so low it barely registers. It sounds kind of like a motorcycle engine idling at a distance. Dean looks up with some stupid quip on the tip of his tongue, but instead it dies in his mouth and stays there. Castiel looks haggard enough that it's not especially funny.

"Hey," says Dean. "You okay?"

"Fine," Castiel says, curtly. He shuffles into the kitchen and Dean hears the sound of the kettle being filled and then dropped indelicately back onto the range top. Dean shuts the journal and follows him into the kitchen, hanging back a little in the doorway, watching Castiel reach up into the cupboards and pull down a box of tea. 

"Rough night?" Dean asks. Castiel snorts, but doesn't turn around to look at him. "Seriously, you look like shit."

"Thanks."

"Are you sick?" Dean moves closer, looking at the circles under his eyes, the way his hands tremble a little. Castiel backs away from him, into the counter. "Did that fisher's snare do something to you?"

"No," says Castiel. Dean edges in suspiciously and Castiel puts one hand out, pushes Dean gently but insistently backwards a foot without really moving much at all. It's surprising. It's like being forced back by the wind. The movement of an otherwise invisible power. Dean puts a hand to the spot where Castiel's just was; he rubs his chest and breathes short, shallow breaths. "Don't," says Castiel. His voice is soft and rough, in total contrast to the unexpected iron strength of him. "Just, don't."

"Okay," says Dean. He puts his hands up. "Okay." He turns and walks out, goes back to the other room and sits down on the sofa. He's not sure what just happened.

After a while, Castiel comes out of the kitchen and goes upstairs; he walks back down with shoes on and hair brushed, and he looks marginally more pulled-together. He sits in a chair at Dean's elbow and pulls the journal across the table, looking at Dean's notations. 

"You've broken his cipher."

"Not so much broke, as I know his method," Dean says. "It's kind of like a Caesar shift, except it's based in a particular word. It has some French name that I forget."

"Vigenère," says Castiel.

"Sure." Dean shrugs. 

"What's the word?" Castiel asks, and Dean looks at him. "Oh," he says. "I'm sorry, I-"

"It's fine," Dean says. "Mary. The word's Mary."

Dean pulls the journal back across the table and goes back to copying, stopping every now and again to check his work against the key he's made. Castiel sits reading the decoded pages. Minutes pass in silence, except for the scratch of the pen and the soft scrape of pages. But Dean gets the feeling that Castiel is looking at him. When he glances up to check, Castiel is staring pointedly away, down at the papers in his lap.

"She's a hero," Castiel says, finally. Quietly. "In our world, she's a hero. But I don't know anything about her. I don't think anyone does." He looks up at Dean, then.

"She was kind," Dean says. It just- comes out. He didn't think about saying it before he said it, and now, there it is. She was kind. His throat feels raw. "She liked to- sing. And tell stories." He looks down at the journal but the letters are blurring together. Strange. "She knew a lot of old stories. But she didn't mind me asking for the same ones over and over again." He curls his shoulders in, without meaning to. His hands are loose, useless, in his lap. "Her magic was so beautiful. I was born in January and for my birthday she used to make these- ice birds. They floated like snowflakes." He can still see them coming down in a little flurry, miniature wings crystalline and perfect, melting on his palms and on the tip of his nose. He remembers the cold, and then her gloved hand wrapped around his. Being lifted into her arms. "She was my mom and I loved her," he says.

Castiel is very still and then he reaches out and rests his hand on Dean's arm, just above the wrist. There's fabric between his fingertips and Dean's skin, but Dean can feel how warm his hand is, the slightest touch of gentle pressure. Castiel's hand isn't shaking anymore.

"Thank you," he says.

"You're welcome," says Dean. But he's the one who feels grateful. 

 

 

"I've been thinking," Dean says, later, and Castiel looks up from the maps. Some of John's notes are about Caldey Island and the monastery there, so Castiel is working out the best place to apparate. Someplace isolated enough, where they won't trigger any re-activated old wards. Apparently Castiel doesn't want a repeat performance of the graveyard incident. According to him, the whole place is a minefield of forgotten ley lines, which any wizard worth a damn could have already tapped into. It could be, as Castiel put it, a giant booby-trap. Dean doesn't have the heart to tell him how ridiculous the word _booby-trap_ sounds coming earnestly out of a grown man's mouth.

"About?"

"About dad's wand," says Dean. He taps the pen against the table, and Castiel waits. "Why'd they take it? If he was dead, they could have left it."

"You're presuming," Castiel says, looking very uncomfortable, "that there was- anything remaining of the wand."

"Yeah," says Dean. He feels briefly winded. "Yeah, okay." There wasn't much of his father left to begin with. "But most spells don't target wands. They target bodies. So even if dad- there should have been something. A charred stick."

"Masters could have required a replacement," Castiel points out. "Her broken wand might have been an accident."

"I don't think so," Dean says. "It was snapped clean in half. No marks on it, no splintering, like there wasn't a fight for it. No burns, no scorching, and it didn't explode."

"You've seen a lot of damaged wands?"

"I work with dragons," Dean says, flatly. "And I spent my teenage years clearing graves. It feels wrong," he says. "It feels like a bait-and-switch, I just can't figure out why they'd want it. It's just a plain old ash wand. Nothing fancy. Not like it's got phoenix parts or some crap."

"Ash," Castiel says, thoughtfully. 

"You got something?"

"I don't know." Castiel dips his hand into the pile of notes, pulls out the journal. Finds the page with the tree drawn into the margins. He taps it with his finger, traces the branches upwards. "It was sacred to early wizards. It's still used in divination." He looks up at Dean. "You should talk to Ollivander."

"I'll call an owl."

"No." Castiel shakes his head. "Go to London. Speak with him in private."

"Okay," Dean says. He can see Castiel's hand trembling a little in his lap, under the table. "I can leave tomorrow morning and be back by-"

" _No_ ," Castiel says. "No. Stay the night in the city. Have dinner. Meet a friend. If possible, be seen."

"What good will that do?"

"The graveyard was a trap. They've assumed that whoever has the journal is following their trail. If you're in London, acting normally, it could cause them to- re-adjust their thinking. It might cause them to make a mistake."

"And if somebody tries to gank me outside a pub again?"

"You can handle it," Castiel says.

"Fine," says Dean, slumping backwards into the sofa. "I'll go. Whatever. Nice to know you're so concerned about my safety." Castiel gives him a strangely dark look, face drawn and eyes hard, and then jerks his gaze away at the floor. Like he is secretly angry at Dean- or at something- but unwilling to demonstrate just _how_ angry. Frankly, it's fucking baffling.

"Your safety," says Castiel, "is exactly what I have in mind."

They don't talk again that night, except to compare a couple of notes here and there; Castiel goes up to bed early and there's not even a sliver of light under his door when Dean turns in. In the morning Dean expects him to be around somewhere, padding through the kitchen or yawning in the hall- maybe even wet-haired again, wide-eyed- but the door's still shut and Castiel's still behind it when Dean slings his bag over his shoulder and leaves. He makes a glamour for himself as he walks, a simple one, based on a couple of things he's seen Castiel do. It's still not great, but it'll work; enough to get him to Ollivander's without getting recognized straight away. He apparates to the East End and takes a floo to Diagon Alley. He can barely remember the last time he was here. He used to come through now and again with- well, with John, in between Ministry jobs, for a drink or a quick stop at the apothecary's or a rummage around the junk shop. Dean's never bought new robes or a faster broomstick: he used to borrow Bobby's crooked old broom for pick-up games in the summer. He's never been to Gringott's, even though he knows there used to be a family vault there. He guesses that got emptied after the fire. There's a goblin bank in Salem, too, although they've got mostly wizard tellers. But the street itself looks exactly the same as it did three years ago, five years ago, ten. Dean's not surprised: he's yet to meet many wizards on this side of the ocean who are much interested in change on a grand scale. And from the look of most of the shops- and the stuffed diricawl specimens growing mildew in the windows- nobody's especially interested in modern sanitation standards, either. Sometimes the old wizarding world makes Dean want to wash his hands repeatedly.

Dean goes into Ollivander's and pretends to browse the racks while a mother and her son pick out the kid's first wand. There's a little bit of a light show when they find the right one, and Ollivander goes through a short speech about the wand choosing the wizard, pretty much the same thing Dean remembers hearing when he was eleven and getting a wand of his own for the first time. He remembers practicing with Bobby's sometimes. And he remembers stealing his dad's wand once, when he was about nine, to turn things into frogs for Sam. That earned him a hiding. Dean stops thinking about that, and instead watches the kid's face go slack and awed at the whole experience. Dean sometimes wonders what it would have been like: taking Sam to get a wand, to buy robes and a broom, watching him fuck up _leviosa_ a dozen times and then get it right. What it would have looked like, that expression on Sam's face. Joy. Pride.

"Can I help you?" Ollivander asks, when his other customers are gone. He's a weathered old man, with keen eyes. He watches placidly while Dean draws his wand and locks the door and turns the _open_ sign around against the glass. "Well," says Ollivander. "I do hope it's important enough to justify an early lunch." Dean draws off the glamour and Ollivander actually leans over the desk with his mouth open. "Oh," he says. "It's you."

"You recognize me?"

"I recognize those eyes," says Ollivander. "You're Mary Campbell's son." Dean probably looks shell-shocked by that, because Ollivander gives him a sad, kind smile. "Don't look so surprised," he says. "Didn't you know, your grandfather was a wand-maker?"

"No," says Dean. "No, I didn't."

"Well, he was," says Ollivander. "He was also my friend. I knew your mother when she was just a girl. Gifted, your mother. From an early age. The Campbells were a good family. Powerful, once upon a time." He taps his fingers against the desk, lost in thought. There's quite a long silence until Dean clears his throat, and Ollivander smiles again, slightly. "I'm an old man and I'm afraid I retreat to the past more often than I should. What can I do for you, Mary's son?"

"Dean."

"What can I do for you, Dean?"

"You said that the wand we have belonged to Meg Masters." Ollivander nods. "Well, for some reason, the people who left that wand, took my father's. I need to know why." Ollivander steeples his fingers and looks intently at Dean.

"Describe it," he says.

"It was ash." Dean tries to recall it- the exact shape and weight of it, the texture of the handle. "Heartwood. Not especially flexible? And it had a dragon heartstring."

"Do you remember, were there any markings? Any markings at all?"

"Just these- dots. Little dots along the grip, blackened, like burns. But they were sort of irregular, like-" Dean shrugs, at a loss. "I don't know, I- don't laugh," he warns, then. "When I was a kid, I thought they looked like little potatoes or footprints or something."

"Coals," says Ollivander. "They were coals."

"Whoa," says Dean. "You know the wand? Did you make it?"

"No. Your grandfather did." Dean gapes at him. "It was a gift. I remember it now. A wedding present. To welcome your father to the family." Ollivander's eyes are clouding over. "Family was everything to Samuel." He looks down at Dean across the desk, but his gaze barely reaches- as if there were a great canyon stretching between them, a gulf of time and space and grief. Dean doesn't know what to say. "They died so long ago," says Ollivander. "Samuel and Delwen. You would have been just a child."

"I don't remember them."

"No," says Ollivander. "No, of course not." He smiles, but his head sags on his neck. He looks tired. "The _Onnen Asa_ ," says Ollivander.

" _Onnen_ ," Dean repeats, trying to place it. "Ash wood?"

"From the ash tree of Saint Asaph." Ollivander pulls out a drawer of his desk, fumbles in it for a minute, shuts it and pulls out another. And comes up with a battered leather folio that he unties and spreads out on the desk in front of him. Dean can see charts and sigils, patterns like wood-grain around the edges of each page. Ollivander licks his thumb and turns the pages slowly, then settles on one that he slides out in Dean's direction. "When the world was younger, plenty of saints were wizards, and plenty of wizards were saints," says Ollivander. "Asaph carried hot coals and they thought it was miraculous. It wasn't. Just a little cooling charm. But keeping the rising dead out of Llanelwy, well. That was a miracle. His greatest." He taps the page, where there's a drawing of a tree not unlike the drawing in John's journal. Curving branches intertwine with the text, in an old script Dean can't actually read. "His wand was made from ash wood, that he cut out of the tree himself. For centuries wand-makers cherished the secret of that tree, hoarding every board and branch that they could find. As far as I know, the piece your grandfather used was the last. The very last."

"Holy wood," Dean says, and immediately clamps down on the broken, eternally childish part of his brain. Maybe best not to make dick jokes in front of a ninety-year-old man. Dean's thoughts are racing past it, anyway, trying to figure out what the fuck this all means. "So there's something they need the wand for. What were you saying, about the dead?"

"Legend says another wizard tried to raise an army of souls from over the wall, and Asaph sent them back. I don't know how. I'm not sure anyone does." Ollivander stares down at the page. "I'm sorry. My mind is not what it was. I wish I could be more help to you."

"Everything helps," Dean says. "And this is more than I expected. Much more."

"Good." Ollivander actually looks pleased. "Good." He shuffles his papers again, starts to pack them away. "If you need me again, I am here. I am always here for a Campbell," he says. He looks up at Dean. His gaze is sharp again; piercing. "Always."

 

 

.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ridiculous little man," Bela hisses. She's suddenly much closer to Dean, her voice is much lower, and her hand is firm around his wrist. All the sleek charm is gone. "I'm not propositioning you. I'm trying to save your idiotic life. Now act like you're enchanted with me and get out of your seat before I stun you and drag you away."
> 
> "Uh," says Dean, and then, more loudly: "yeah, that sounds good." Thankfully, he doesn't have to pretend to act sheepish and self-conscious, that is already happening to him. "Let's take this party elsewhere."
> 
>  
> 
> . . . . . . . .

After Dean leaves Ollivander's, he doesn't exactly know what to do with himself. Ollivander's got a private floo in the back room that he lets Dean use- not linked the main network, apparently, something else that's good to remember- and it lets him out in the kitchen of an old pub on the south side of the river. There's only one grizzled old man behind the bar and no customers, and he barely even looks at Dean as Dean waves awkwardly and slips out of a side door. After that he wanders through a couple of neighborhoods and gets a sandwich somewhere and wanders some more. He finds himself almost to Greenwich and decides to walk there after all. He crosses through the old marketplace and then sits in the park for a while, halfway up the hill between the museum and the observatory, watching families plod up the path, kids dancing ahead and looping back, couples holding hands, people talking on their phones. It's cold outside but the grass under his back feels good when he lies down to stare up at the sky. There are hardly any clouds, just a few streams of white coasting high on the wind, thin and wispy and stretching into threads. When the sun starts to sink, Dean buttons his jacket and heads for the ferry. He takes it to a public floo by the Ministry buildings, goes back to Diagon Alley like it's his first time there today, and sits at the Leaky Cauldron nursing a pint and then a second pint and then a steak and kidney pie. He doesn't see anyone he knows. He could owl Charlie right this second, use one of the bar messengers to get her a quick letter, see if she's back in town with her mother. He could call Reg or Harry, even though he hasn't seen them in months- he knows they keep muggle phones the same way Dean does, for their non-owling relatives to get hold of them. But he doesn't feel like bothering anyone. Doesn't want anyone to get connected to him, caught up in his crap. He's staring down into the runny remains of his gravy and thinking about basically nothing when a woman in really expensive robes slides into the seat beside him.

"Hello," she says. She's pretty in a catlike way, delicate-featured, but with odd, dark eyes that seem to track every motion of Dean's face. "Seeing portents in our dinner, are we?"

"No," says Dean. He slides the plate away, smiles. "I'm not much for divination."

"You prefer your pleasures concrete, is that it?" She smiles: it's stunning, but it's not especially sweet. "I appreciate a man of simple tastes." She extends one perfectly manicured hand. Dean shakes it. Her grip's pretty damn firm. "Bela," she says. 

"Dean."

"Well, Dean." She turns her gaze just a fraction to survey the room, and a wry little twist edges up the corner of her mouth. "I realize what a charming spot this is, and how loath you'd be to leave it." She looks back at him, eyelids lowered, lashes fringed and dark. "But perhaps I could persuade you to take a little walk with me."

"Wow," says Dean. Bela stares at him. 

"I'm sorry?"

"That's-" he leans back, shaking his head. "Does that always work? Like, one hundred percent of the time?"

"I'm certain I don't know what you mean," she says, icily. "I'm merely-"

"Don't take it the wrong way," Dean says. "I'm impressed. Hell, I want to walk out of here with you right now. But I think if I do, tonight ends with you turning into a giant snake and biting my head clean off." He grins. "I might even enjoy it."

"Ridiculous little man," Bela hisses. She's suddenly much closer to Dean, her voice is much lower, and her hand is firm around his wrist. All the sleek charm is gone. "I'm not propositioning you. I'm trying to save your idiotic life. Now act like you're enchanted with me and get out of your seat before I stun you and drag you away."

"Uh," says Dean, and then, more loudly: "yeah, that sounds good." Thankfully, he doesn't have to pretend to act sheepish and self-conscious, that is already happening to him. "Let's take this party elsewhere."

Bela leads him out by the hand, her cloying fake smile back in place and her fingers wrapped tight in his. Dean walks next to her, wand tucked up into his sleeve, checking faces as he goes. He doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to be looking for, or who. They get outside and Bela lets go of his hand within a dozen yards of the pub, stalking ahead and around a corner, then dragging him down a side street he doesn't recognize. It occurs to him quite suddenly that this could be the trap- that he's about to get killed to death, not rescued. The thought leaves him a little dizzy, maybe with shock, maybe with adrenaline. His head feels cloudy. It makes him hang back until Bela mutters _sod it_ under her breath and shoves him into a wall-

-that isn't actually a wall. Dean falls straight through what looked like solid brick a second ago, and lands against a bookshelf that he almost knocks to the ground. Instead, Dean loses his grip on it and tumbles to the floor. His stomach gives a twinge of protest that seems to radiate through all his limbs. He feels weirdly underwater, a little boneless and uncoordinated. _Lightweight_ , he thinks accusingly at himself. Or maybe something happened when he went through the wall? Dean tries to stand, and can't.

"The graceful Mister Winchester," says an excessively sarcastic voice from just above him. Dean looks up at a blur, blinks, and finds himself staring up at a skinny, scowling, black-haired man in dark robes that make him look like-

"Marilyn Manson?" Dean mutters, waving his hands above his face. "Is that you?"

"Never mind," says the man. "We should let him die."

"Just do it," Bela orders.

Dean feels someone grab him by the hair and pull his head upright; drunk or dying or whatever, he still fights back. Dean punches upward and connects with flesh. Somebody says _ow_ and then _stupefy_ and then Dean is stunned backwards onto the carpet. He lies there and someone jerks his head up again, pours some kind of slimy, bitter-tasting liquid into his mouth. Dean tries to spit it out, but he's too limp and uncoordinated. He swallows, and the taste scorches the back of his throat.

"Gross," Dean slurs. 

"You'll thank us later, darling," says Bela, patting his cheek. The haze around his vision has started to clear. Dean blinks and then pushes away the arms holding him up. He rolls onto his side to sit up, and looks around. "Feeling better?"

"I- what just happened?"

"You were poisoned." This from the dude with the pinched expression. "Probably in the pie. Moonseed, most likely. Naturally, you'd have just taken them for mustard grains," the guy adds, dismissively, like Dean is an idiot for not just assuming his dinner was a murder attempt.

"Okay," says Dean. He gets up off the floor and only wobbles a little. "Thank you," he says, to both of them. Bela smiles, more genuinely. The other guy's face doesn't move. "So who baked me the death pie?"

"He's in custody," Bela says. 

"Custody?" Dean echoes.

"Let's just say, the Order will deal with him. It's one of Azazel's gang, someone we've been looking for. When Castiel told us you were coming to London, we had an eye out-"

"Wait a second," Dean puts his hands up. " _Castiel_ told you I was coming here? What exactly did he tell you?"

"He contacted us this afternoon, and said you had business in town- relax, he didn't say what it was," Bela adds, sort of huffily. "He wanted you found and guarded." She rolls her eyes. "I can't imagine why."

"Okay," says Dean. "That explains you two. But how did this guy find me so fast?" Dean asks. "I've been in London for like twelve hours." There's a barely perceptible look between Bela and the sour-faced guy, almost like they're talking in their own heads. And Dean connects the dots. "Oh shit," says Dean. "Somebody tipped him off. You have a mole, don't you?"

"We might have-" Bela chews her lip. "A slight issue."

"If it's any consolation," the other guy says, "your little episode has helped us to narrow down potential suspects."

"Oh, fuck this," Dean says, and backs away from them. "Fuck this, fuck the Order, I'm out of here."

"Dean-"

"No," he says, and pulls Bela's hand off his sleeve. "No. I'm not bait. I'm leaving."

"Stay the night," Bela says. "Please. You're safe here for now. Stay the night." She glances at the dark-haired guy. "There could be side effects from the poison. Better if you stay here, where we can watch you."

"Nobody's _watching_ me," Dean says, pointing at them. "Forget it."

"Fine," says the other guy. "Go ahead, get yourself killed-"

" _Severus_ ," Bela hisses. The guy shuts up, but gives her a deadly look. Bela turns back to Dean. "Forgive my brother," she says. "Dean, you're valuable to the Order. We need your help. We need what you know. I know this is difficult for you, but please understand. We're doing all we can. We want the same thing you do."

"Yeah?" Dean says. "And what's that?" Bela's smile widens, and for the first time, Dean feels he's getting a real glimpse below the surface.

"Revenge."

 

 

In the end Dean lets them run a couple of tests on him; Bela trails her wand around his outline and chants to herself and pronounces him purged of the poison. But he still feels a little weak and lagging as he follows her up the stairs to a spare bedroom. The house is weird: ancient and gigantic and crumbling in places. Dean spots at least three full-sized chandeliers, and a dozen faded portraits in the hall, full of old slumbering wizards propped up on armchairs. There are locked glass-fronted cabinets in the hallways with strange objects inside them: once or twice, Dean thinks he feels a pulse of- well, frankly, of dark magic, emanating from the other end of the room as he passes by. It sends a shiver up his spine. The spare bedroom is plain and only a little dusty, and there are a few stacks of books by the side of the bed. Along with a broken crucible and a number of bottles lined up on the desk. "My brother is a bit of a hermit," Bela apologizes. "The house isn't what it was."

"It's fine." Dean sits on the edge of the old mattress, and the springs complain. He thinks about the cottage, the ragged garden and the torn curtains; about Castiel moving in silence through the kitchen. He looks away from Bela, like she could see any of that on his face. Whatever, it's nothing. It doesn't mean anything. "Hey," he says. "You should get Witch Weekly to do one of their home makeovers. I think this place would actually make them cry." Bela's half-smile appears, and then fades. "Sorry, I didn't-"

"Don't worry about it," she says. She goes to the window and looks out for a minute, then draws the drape across it, shutting out the moonlight. She whispers something and the candles in the room light themselves. He can still see her outline, faintly lit by the glow. "There's been too much crying already in this house, I think." 

"Bela-"

"No," she says. "No, thank you, no more talking, I think its time to say goodnight, Mister Winchester," she says. She turns for the door. "Unless you'd like me to stay and _not_ talk." She smirks. "I can't promise silence, but I suspect we could render each other inarticulate."

"Ah," Dean says. "I- uh, not that I wouldn't-"

"I see," Bela says. Well good, because Dean doesn't. "Sleep well, Dean." She shuts the door behind her.

He doesn't sleep, or rather, he tries to sleep for a few hours, tossing and turning on the fairly painful mattress. But after a fitful doze and a nightmare he'd rather not repeat, Dean finds himself staring at the ceiling, finding shapes in the plaster. It's just past three in the morning, according to his phone. He does some quick math in his head and thinks about what time it is in Salem. If he should call Sam. Or Bobby. Maybe see if Bobby's dug up anything on a scarring curse. But in the end Dean just stuffs his things back into his satchel and goes down the stairs in his sock feet, at a quarter to four. He doesn't really feel like going for round two with his hosts. There's nobody downstairs and the door is locked and warded. The wards give way easily enough for him, and snap back afterwards, so he figures that's just their normal setting. But when he goes out the door and turns around, the door's vanished. There's just a brick wall there, plain and nondescript, perfectly blended like it's a continuation of the rowhouses around it. There are plain windows, none of the elaborate decoration he saw from the inside. 

"Neat trick," he murmurs, and leaves.

He puts a glamour on behind some department-store dumpsters and wanders the city for a while, catching a very early train north. He ends up apparating outside Hogsmeade and walking the rest of the way, under a disillusionment that's only half as good as Castiel's. He doesn't know if he's going to be mad when he gets there, what the sight of Castiel's face is going to do. It's possible that Castiel knew there was danger from a mole, and that's why he sent Dean to London in the first place. If that's the case, Dean's not sure how to weigh that against the fact that Castiel sending him bodyguards surely saved his life. It's too fucking confusing to turn over and over in his head, so he tries to stop focusing so hard on it and thinks of song lyrics instead, old spells, arithmancy homework problems from a decade ago. It kind of works. He is mentally calculating the safe distance from a _bombada_ ricochet- based on relative combustibility of the target- when he gets to the safe house and literally bounces off a new, incredibly powerful ward. "The shit?" Dean says, from the ground.

It takes him a good twenty minutes to work around the new ward, untangling one strand from another and finding a soft spot in the back of the house, by the garden. It's a weird one- resistant and springy, equally intense from the inside as the outside. He manages to get through and unlocks the other wards just fine with the sigils Castiel taught him. Apparently, Castiel's stepped up the security, or- Dean's stomach drops into his feet. "Fuck," he says, throwing his bag down on the back stoop. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." He draws his wand and slides through the back door as silently as he can, keeping his back to the wall, out of view of the front rooms. It's possible Castiel didn't set that outer ward. Dean didn't study it too closely, but he knows some wards are meant to keep things _in_. If the mole knew Dean was in London, it might also have known that Castiel was alone. Dean moves through the house quickly, casting a reveal into the corners, trying to force out anything that's invisible or cloaked. He gets upstairs and goes through his own room, then Castiel's- it's way neater than he expected- but finds nothing. Nothing except for an upset table, a few things knocked over and scattered on the floor. It fills him with dread, and rage. He goes back down the steps and almost crosses out of the kitchen, going for the yard and the woods beyond, when he notices the basement door is ajar. Last time Dean saw it, the bolt was drawn from the outside. Dean goes down the steps into the dark, slowly, letting his eyes adjust. "What the-" he breathes.

There's an iron door in the basement wall, heavy like a bank vault, like it was placed into the foundation. There's an old-school puzzle lock set into the center. Dean taps his wand against it and the sliders click themselves into place. The door lock unbolts, and Dean swings it open. "Jesus _Christ_!"

There's a body on the floor- no, _Castiel's_ on the floor, huddled on top of a pile of burlap sacks, stark naked and bloody. Dean falls to his knees next to him, heart racing, bile in his mouth. _Fuck_ , he should have known- shouldn't have left, should have come back. Dean rolls him over and only starts to breathe again when he finds a pulse in Castiel's throat. Castiel is dirty and covered in deep scratches, gouges that cross the tops of his thighs and shoulders, the meat of his belly. There's still blood oozing out of the cuts, sluggishly, scabbing over. Dean doesn't know how long he's been lying here in this cellar, hours probably. He looks around. Weirdly, there's a little cupboard set into the wall. Dean looks at it for a second, feeling confused, then unlocks the latch with one hand. Inside, he finds Castiel's wand. It's resting on a neatly folded pair of pants. There's a roll of cotton bandages beside it. Dean stares at it, and then back at Castiel. Castiel's face is slack and his hair is wrecked, flat on one side and curling to wildness on the other. There's blood under his fingernails.

And Dean knows.

He sits for a second longer, feeling totally stupid, and then leans down to Castiel, to tap his cheek lightly. He shakes his arms, as gently as he can manage. "Castiel," he says. "Cas, come on. Wake up." From the floor, Castiel groans and turns his face into the burlap. "Cas, help me here. I've got to get you up."

"No," Castiel says, groggily. And then his eyes fly open. "Dean," he breathes. He tries to roll away and cracks a scab; he inhales with shock and curls in on himself, panting. He stares at Dean like a frightened animal. "No," he says again, blankly. "No. _Dean_." Dean reaches out a hand to rest on his arm, at a place where he's not gashed.

"Come on," he says. "Come on, let me get you up." Castiel puts his face into his hands, like he's going to lose it. "Cas-"

"Go," says Castiel. "You can go." His whole body shudders. "I never wanted- go," he says. "You can go."

"Go?" Dean repeats. "What the fuck are you talking about?" Castiel's head tilts back up, confused. "Cas, I need to get you upstairs. We're gonna get you a bath and clean you up." Castiel gapes at him, and Dean makes an irritated noise and leans forward to hook Castiel's arm over his shoulder. Castiel hisses. "I'm sorry," Dean says. "I'm really sorry, but you can't stay down here." He lifts and Castiel comes with him, finally, pushing up with his knees until they're both standing. Castiel's leaning on him, and Dean curls an arm around his waist, holds him a little tighter until Castiel sags against him. Dean manages to get them out of the cellar and up the stairs into the kitchen, then up to the bathroom on the second floor. He deposits Castiel against the side of the tub and starts the water. "Don't move," he says. Dean goes into the hall closet and finds a couple of towels, brings them into the bathroom and leaves them on the windowsill. The tub's filling, so he pulls Castiel to his feet again- more wincing- and helps him kneel down in the hot water. Castiel settles against the back of the tub, knees drawn up against his tender stomach, dark circles under his eyes. "You good?" Dean asks. Dean glances at the washcloth and the bar of soap on the ledge. "Do you want me to-"

"No," says Castiel. He sounds hollow, wrung out. Humiliated. "I can manage." He looks away. "This is not the first time."

"Okay," Dean says. He stands up, wiping wet hands on his jeans. "If you need me, I'm right here. Right outside." Castiel says nothing. Dean goes outside and shuts the door halfway, listening. After a while he hears the taps turn off, and then the sound of Castiel leaning back to settle into the water. 

And then, silence.

 

 

.


	7. Chapter 7

"You wanted to get me out of the way," Dean says, from the hall. "For the full moon." Castiel's clean and dressed- on his own, because he pushed Dean out of the room- and now Dean leans against the door frame and watches Castiel bend down to tuck his feet into slippers. It's slow and careful. Castiel stands back up, but doesn't straighten up completely. There's a hunch in his shoulders that still speaks of pain. It hurts Dean. And makes him feel kind of angry, too. "You sent me to London so I wouldn't be here for your change."

"Yes," says Castiel.

"You thought I wouldn't _notice_? What the fuck was I supposed to think, finding you down there?"

"You weren't," Castiel says. "You weren't supposed to. I would have gotten myself upstairs and withdrawn the ward before you came back," he says, turning to fix a narrow stare on Dean, "if you hadn't come back at five-thirty in the morning." Dean shrugs, and Castiel looks back down at his own feet. "Too late," he says, quietly, like he's talking to himself. "It's done now."

"What's done?"

"Nothing," he says. "Did you learn anything useful from Ollivander?" As a distraction tactic, it's a good one. He looks at Dean almost eagerly.

"My dad's wand was ash wood. Not just any ash wood, the-" Dean tries to remember. "Onnen Asa. The holy ash tree of Saint Asaph. Apparently he was a wizard, got famous for some trick with an army of the undead." Castiel's eyes widen to dinner plates in a fraction of a second. 

"Asaph," says Castiel. "Yes. An army from Annwn. Asaph sent them back over the wall."

"Well, this tree's the same one he cut his own wand from, about a billion years ago. Ollivander said it was the last piece."

"A saint's tree. A wand that's a holy relic." Castiel breathes through his mouth and stares into the middle distance. Dean's afraid the excitement is too much for him. "If Asaph turned aside an army of the dead," he murmurs. "What could you do with another piece of the tree? Call them back?" He picks up a sweater from the end of the bed and fumbles with pulling it on, trying not to touch himself on his shoulders. It doesn't go well; Dean can see the tension in his face whenever he misses. Castiel tries to go past Dean, towards the stairs, and Dean holds his hands out between them. "Dean," he says. "We've got to find out-"

"Okay," says Dean. "I'll bring the journal upstairs." Castiel gives him a narrow, suspicious look. "Just sit down and relax for a second," Dean says, gesturing at the bed. "I'll bring you whatever you need."

"I can get it myself," Castiel says, and staggers past him. He trudges down the stairs and goes into the living room, starts to sift through the papers. Dean follows him and refrains from saying anything pointed and insightful about stubborn jackasses. Instead, he rolls his eyes and goes into the kitchen. He cuts some slices of bread and cheese, and lights the old-fashioned stove. He rummages in the cupboard for one of the tins of beans from the market, opens it, and dumps it into a pot. He's looking for a lid in the cupboard over the counter when he hears Castiel shuffle into the doorway. "What are you doing?" he asks. "We need to determine more about the wand's-"

"You gotta eat something," Dean says. "It'll only take a minute. Kind of a variation on the Winchester hangover special."

"You don't need to do this."

"Don't worry about it."

"Stop," says Castiel. He comes to the counter and takes the pot lid out of Dean's hands. "Stop. You don't need to do this. I don't want you to do this."

"Hey, relax. I've made dinner here, remember? I'm not going to wreck your kitchen. I think somebody already did that."

"You don't understand," Castiel hisses. "Don't do this. Don't be kind to me." Dean freezes.

"Cas," he says.

"Don't be kind," he says again, raggedly. "I can't get used to it." And then he turns and practically rockets out of the room; Dean hears his feet go up the stairs fast at first, and then slow. He's probably hurt himself. The door to his bedroom shuts. And Dean just stands there empty-handed in the kitchen while the beans start to boil.

 

 

Dean finishes breakfast and scoops some of the beans into a wide-mouthed mug, then arranges the bread- toasted on the stovetop- and some cheese and sliced tomatoes onto a plate. He looks for a tray but only finds a big wooden cutting board. He puts everything on that and carries it up the stairs. The door is shut but Dean opens it anyway, to find Castiel shirtless, sitting on the edge of the bed, dabbing at an oozing welt on his shoulder. The other cuts on the opposite side- and the ones lower, along his belly, dipping below his waistband- are on their way to healing already, more sore pink than angry red, which is kind of amazing. Dean has never seen werewolf healing in person before. He wonders how many people actually have. He sets the tray down on a chair next to the bed and stands in front of Castiel, over him. Castiel doesn't look up. "I ran into the wall," Castiel says. "In my haste."

"That's why I don't run with scissors anymore," Dean says. Castiel looks up then, surprised. "That's a joke, Cas."

"Oh."

Dean sits down beside him. The medical kit that Castiel was using slides across the covers, landing against Dean's leg. Dean picks out a little vial of dittany essence, opens it, tips it against a square of cotton. Dean reaches forward over Castiel's arm, and then pauses. Castiel gives him the slightest nod, and Dean swipes the little square over the cut. It turns pink in his hands. He wipes until the skin is clean and the edges of the cut have started to pull towards one another. Dean tosses the cotton in a trash bin by the bed. And then Dean holds his hand over the cut, close but not touching, and whispers _caredig chlora_. There's a faint throb of warmth between his palm and the skin of Castiel's arm, and then nothing. Castiel stares at him, and his own arm, at him again. And rolls his shoulder, experimentally. "I don't know that charm," he says. "It's more effective than the ones I've used before."

"Yeah, well, that's because I came up with it," Dean says. "And I'm awesome." He leans around Castiel and Castiel lets him, even inclines himself a little better so Dean can reach his other shoulder. Dean heals the welts on his other arm and then looks down, at Castiel's belly. Castiel lies backwards and Dean heals the cuts on his stomach. Afterwards, he rolls up slowly, still looking a little pained. "Sorry, it's not perfect," Dean says. "I've never met a healing charm that didn't make your body do some of the work."

"Dean-"

"It's okay," Dean says. "I get it. I do. You get used to taking care of yourself, you figure that's the best way." Dean grins, humorlessly. "Look at me, I can't even call my only brother. Like I'm saving him, somehow, by keeping him out of my shit. But it's just because I feel like- I feel like I can't. Like I don't deserve to hear his voice." Dean wads up the extra bandages in his fist, and then relaxes. He looks at Castiel and Castiel is already looking at him, face soft and fearful somehow, truly opened for the first time. "You don't want my kindness," Dean says. "Too bad, you get it anyway. And even- Cas, even if things don't last-" he says, and falters. Dean's hand is so close to Castiel's that he could curl his fingers around Castiel's wrist, could feel the pulse there. Be sure he's alive again. He wants to. But he doesn't. "Sometimes good memories can be all you've got left."

"Dean," Castiel says.

"Yeah?" And then Castiel smiles at him- weird how nice it is, how his eyes go brighter. Sad but less sad somehow. Castiel smiles at him for real, and Dean's adjectives all fail him.

"I am hungry after all," he says.

"Okay, okay," Dean says, laughing. "Bossypants." He pushes gently on Castiel's chest to get him to sit back against the pillows, then gets the tray from the chair. He sets it between them and watches Castiel eat the mug of beans, some of the bread, all of the tomatoes. Dean steals some of his cheese. They don't talk much. They don't touch. But Dean looks at the healing skin of his arms and the gently fading pink lines there, curling around his arms- at the webwork of old scars on his chest and belly- and thinks to himself almost blankly, dumbly, like a kind of awestruck fool, _he's so beautiful_. 

Oh, dear God. Dean is so very fucked.

 

 

Castiel is healed up by the next morning, even if he's still walking like his joints are kind of stiff and sore. Dean makes him slide his shirt up and prove that he's knitted back together, and Castiel submits to another round of healing charms without much complaining. He's even quieter than usual, subdued somehow, moving through the kitchen and the rest of the house in silence, looking at Dean with a strange expression whenever he thinks Dean isn't looking at him. Dean is trying hard not to notice stuff like that. And not to make Castiel feel like, well, like he owes Dean something, like he should be grateful just because somebody treated him like a human being. It's the bare minimum Dean could have done. He should have done more, shouldn't have let Cas spend half the night bent over those notes and maps, working by wandlight in his room. There are purpling, baggy circles under his eyes.

"I've found a landing spot at Caldey Island," he says. "Sandtop Bay, here along the coast." Castiel traces the edge of the island on the map, turning the paper in Dean's direction. "There should be nothing there to trigger. And the walk to the priory is barely a mile."

"You think there's something at the priory?"

"My best guess is the Caldey Stone. Sixth-century, inscriptions in Ogham and Latin. It might have value to them as a relic, though I don't know what for." He shakes his head, looking down at the map again. "But it could be nothing. I could be wrong."

"Yeah, well," says Dean. "Your best guess is good enough for me." Dean sits back. He taps his fingers on the edge of the chair. "Caldey Island," he says, thoughtfully. Castiel glances up. "There's- there's this poem I remember, that talks about Annwn. In a book my mother used to own. The book of Taliesin. She read some of it to me, but- it, uh, it burned. So I bought a new copy a few years ago, tried to read it. Most of it doesn't make any sense. But there's a part about Annwn. Arthur and his knights go there. In boats," Dean adds. "In the poem, it's an island."

"The _Preiddeu Annwn_ ," says Castiel, slowly. His eyes are wide. "I'd forgotten."

"There's a magic cauldron in the story, too," says Dean. "When I was a kid I used to put a pot on my head and- never mind," he says, embarrassed. "Dumb kid stuff. But what about that? Think that could be real?"

"I think at this point, anything's possible." Castiel shrugs. "We can only hope to get there first, to disrupt whatever plans they might have." He rolls up the map. "Pack anything you think we'll need. We may have to clear wards as we go. We should arrive after compline, when it's dark. The monks will have gone to bed. It's best if we're not seen. I'll alert the Order and ask for-"

"No," says Dean. 

"Dean," says Castiel. "I understand your concern. But I'll send a message to someone I trust. The Order needs to know if a major-"

"No," Dean repeats. "You trust the Order, I don't. No moles, no leaks, just you and me. I don't want to be crawling around some island in the dark, wondering if I invited my own murderer to the party. We go in quiet, we figure out the situation."

"And if they're already there?" Castiel says. "If we're outnumbered?"

"Burn that bridge when we come to it," Dean shrugs. Castiel rolls his eyes, but doesn't argue. "Cas, promise me you're not going to send that message." Castiel pauses and looks up, meets Dean's eyes squarely.

"I promise." And then he sighs. "If we die, I'll be very irritated with you." He actually looks surprised when Dean laughs. But then his face crinkles up and he's smiling like a weirdo. 

"That's fair," says Dean.

 

 

.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean laughs. It bubbles up in him like bitter soda water, and he lets it go, lets it pop. He sits there with his broken hand against his chest and laughs. It hurts. It aches. 
> 
> "I don't know what you are," Dean says. "But you're not my father."

The beach at Caldey is freezing when they arrive; night winds scrape along the coast off the sea, picking up sand and grit as they waver across the open land and soar upwards at the jut of the island. Castiel picked a decent spot, as far as Dean can tell: sheltered and isolated, an indent in the beach behind an outcropping of rock. On the other side, the pock-marked cliffs rise straight up out of the sea. Dean slides up the side of the rock and peers out along the beach. The last boats of tourists and tradesmen have gone. Dean can see the beam of the lighthouse circling out across the waves, out and away, back again, in a blinking arc. He slides back down to face Castiel. 

"Clear," he says. 

They pick their way upwards and east from the beach. Dean's faint _lumos_ , hidden to the rest of the world under a disillusionment, keeps them from stumbling on the rocks. There are caves in the cliff faces, here and there. Old paths cut along the hills. It's only a few minutes before they crest the top and see the forest to one side, the neat road cutting through the middle of the plain and the monastery buildings in the distance, scattered in small groups. Castiel points out the old priory tower, silently, and they head in that direction. Far off there are still lights, here and there- in the upper floors of the dormitories, a handful of lamp-posts glowing warmly. Castiel whispers something and the closest lamps all go out. The old priory chapel's doors are locked, but Dean charms them open, and they go inside. It's still and cool, darker than a grave but for the faint slivers of moonlight- waning- that cross the chapel floor from the narrow upper windows. There are crickets outside but in here, they're muted, silenced. It feels like even breathing would break the quiet, and Dean winces at the sound of their feet on the bare stone floor. Castiel motions him over to a slab mounted in the wall: it's a hunk of rock with a carved cross and a series of inscriptions that Dean can't quite make out. He holds his lit wand a little closer. "The Caldey Stone?" Castiel nods. He draws his wand along the edges, then across the surface in a slow and careful motion, leaving behind thin trails of flickering light, like fuses burning down to the dynamite. They make a triangle within a circle. He draws one more line through the center, and the stone vanishes. "Whoa." Dean puts his hand out, and it moves easily through the empty air where the stone should have been. "Pretty nice cloaking," he says.

"I didn't cloak it," says Castiel. "I buried it."

"Holy shit, are you serious?" Dean glances around. "Where?"

"I have a marker with that sigil placed elsewhere. All I had to do was link them together, and the sigil called the stone away. We can retrieve it later if it's needed. But for now, it's secure."

"Where's the marker?"

"An abandoned farm outside Dufftown," says Castiel. Dean can see him smiling a little, sort of self-consciously, like he's admitting an embarrassingly nerdy secret. The edges of his face glow warm in the wandlight. "I've got a few things buried there. Things we might need."

"Wow," says Dean. He raises an eyebrow. "Any bodies?"

" _Dean_."

"Sorry. Tasteless." Dean swings his wand around in an arc, taking in the ancient church: the plain walls and carved benches, sturdy and worn smooth like dragon bones, like the weather-beaten wood of ageless trees. "This place is-" Dean says, and trails off. "There's something here," he says. "Can you feel it?"

"Yes," says Castiel. "We should-" he starts, and freezes, and tilts his head up to the air like he's sniffing it again- just like the weird motion he made in the graveyard, last time. Dean realizes, feeling sort of slow and stupid, that he probably was smelling something, because he's got all kinds of werewolf shit going on that Dean does not fully understand. Dean just waits and does not make any weak, inappropriate jokes, and then Castiel grabs the end of Dean's wand and smothers the _lumos_ with his bare hand and whispers with terrifying urgency, " _We need to go_."

"What is it?"

"Side door, now," Castiel hisses. They get low and move across the space out of the sight line of the windows, then slip out of the side door. Dean has a minute of tension, trying to draw the bolt silently, but Castiel just lays a silencing charm and Dean jerks the door open, and then they're sprinting quietly along the side of the wall and behind the hedges. Castiel grabs his sleeve and they crouch there behind the bushes for a second. There's a short line of figures moving across the open field: five or six of them, hooded and cloaked, not even bothering with a concealment charm. Dean can see faint lights at their sides. _Lumos_ charms, then. Wands out. Whoever they are, Dean thinks, they are not fucking around. Right now, they're between Dean and Castiel and the stand of trees at the other end of the road. If they keep moving, there might be a shot at getting past them, getting to cover. Dean watches them come across the lawn, then through the front gate into the priory yard. Unexpectedly, they stop there, gathering in a loose circle and talking urgently among themselves. They're focused on a spot at their feet, wands pointed down at the earth.

"What do they want?" Dean whispers, kneeling closer to Castiel. They peer together through the hedge, and one of the figures jabs a wand forward into the circle- the earth below starts to shudder and give, splitting open, vomiting a spray of dirt and small stones. It makes a grinding, heaving noise that Dean hopes isn't going to send a bunch of muggle monks running their way. "What's under there?" Castiel shakes his head and shrugs. But then a couple of the hooded figures kneel, turning their backs. Dean looks at Castiel, who nods back. Okay. This is probably it.

"Make for the trees," Castiel whispers, close to Dean's shoulder. "Stay low."

They run hunched-over, along the hedge, in the dark. Dean's foot hits a root and he lurches forward but Castiel's got his arm, drags him up and forward and they make their way together to the end of the row. There's a gap between the end of the hedge and the trees and they stop there to catch a breath. Glancing back, Dean can barely see the figures in the churchyard anymore, except for the bobbing glow of their wands. It's too dark here. He hopes that will be cover enough. Castiel grips his arm tighter and they start again, still keeping low, sprinting over the uneven ground. They're almost between the trees- Dean's heart is pumping, and all he can think is _we're gonna make it we're gonna make it_ \- when something comes whistling just past Dean's ear and explodes a tree branch off with a shower of blue sparks. Castiel spins, casting. " _Expulso_ ," he hisses, and Dean feels the force of it as it whips by. There's a burst in the field and somebody far behind them hollers. "Run," says Castiel, shoving Dean in front of him. "Dean, _run_." So Dean runs. He runs like the devil's on his heels, flinging himself through the trees; every few seconds something hits to the right and so Dean feints left, leaps a fallen log, goes on running. Castiel's beside him, a couple of yards away, ducking through the branches, running with grim efficiency. There's a disorienting flash-bang of white light and they both go sprawling forward into the leaves and muck, rolling a few feet down a slight hill. Dean hits bottom and hauls Castiel up and throws back a _bombada_ that sends up a spray of dirt and splinters and hopefully buys them a couple of seconds. They keep running. Dean can see the flare of the lighthouse go around again, so they're almost to the coast. But there are shadows closing in; Dean can see them out of the corners of his eyes, moving through the trees. Not good. They've gotta shake them long enough to apparate out of here. Dean spots a narrow path to the left, where the ground rises up- there's probably a way down the cliffside.

"There." He slaps Castiel's arm as he runs past, nodding towards the break. Castiel gets the hint and follows him. They can lose them in the cliffs. They hurtle down the side of the rock and suddenly they're out of the trees, on an old footpath edging along a narrow jut downward, zig-zagging here and there as it goes. They skid down, around a bend, out of sight. "Okay," Dean says. He holds his hand out for Castiel to grab. "Come on, let's get the fuck out-"

A red flare whips past and slams into Castiel's chest, right into the center of him, and he's thrown backwards into space. " _CAS_!" Dean shrieks, and lurches forward, but there's nothing to grab. Castiel is hurtling over the side of the cliff, past the rocks, out into the gaping blackness between them and the sea. He's there for a second- arms windmilling, eyes wide and terrified- and then he's just gone. Dean scrambles over the edge, trying to see where he's landed, but then there's a body on top of him and his face gets knocked down into the rocks. It's hard enough to hurt but not to stun him completely. Dean pushes back and up and rolls, gets his arm wedged between them, and turns them both over. "Mother _fucker_ ," Dean hisses, and punches the face inside the hood. A bone mask snaps- _some kind of stupid skeleton costume?_ Dean has time to wonder- and Dean hits down again, swings his arm with the whole weight of his shoulder behind it. This time, it's not a mask he breaks. Dean shoves the limp body away and sees somebody else coming over the ridge. Dean casts and the cloaked figure bursts into flames. After that, there's a lot of screaming- a couple more cloaks catch fire as they run into one another- and Dean jumps up onto another ledge, knocks somebody down and rips their mask off, puts his wand to their throat. It's somebody he doesn't recognize. Some stranger, a guy with grey hair and a pinched, weaselly face. "Who are you?" Dean demands. "What the fuck do you want?" The guy struggles and Dean smashes his knuckles into the guy's face, leaves him stunned and bleeding. "I said-" and then Dean's blown sideways, off the ledge onto the one below, all the wind knocked out of him. He shakes his head and tries to get to his knees. He's just found his wand and stretched out to grasp it when a heavy boot crunches down on that hand. Dean sucks in his cry of hurt, looks up through the blood in his eyes. It's another hood and mask, a blur of shadow that wavers in Dean's slightly dizzy vision. A wand is leveled at his temple. His ears are still ringing. The boot grinds down harder and Dean grits his teeth while his vision whites out. He can't really feel his fingers. "Kill me," Dean says. He looks up again. "Or I swear to God, I will fucking end you."

"Watch your language, young man." Dean blinks. The voice is familiar. The figure in the mask lifts his boot and Dean snatches his hand away, curls it against his chest. It burns and throbs; Dean can't even look at how mangled it is. Instead he stares up and watches as the man in the hood reaches up, slides the face plate off. "Is that any way to talk to me?"

The bottom drops out of Dean's world.

"Dad," he says. He feels hot and cold at the same time, feverish, sick in the pit of his stomach. His hand pulses wretchedly. John Winchester's face is unsmiling and stern above him, like a hallucination. Like a horrible dream. Shit. Maybe Dean's dead, too. "Dad, what- what the hell is this?"

"This is an opportunity," John says. He leans down to look into Dean's eyes. "This is a lesson. You defied me, Dean. You went your own way. You should have obeyed me. Stood by me. The pain you're feeling now- this is the price of disobedience."

"I don't-" Dean feels hysterical, like his head's going to float away. "I don't understand. Dad, I never-"

"I'm giving you a new chance, here." John says. "I'm giving you the chance to redeem yourself. Join me, Dean. Be the good son again. Everything can be the way it was. You, at my side. Working together." Dean's mind races. John reaches out to him, offering his hand. "There's so much to do. So many things I haven't told you. So much we can accomplish." He smiles down at Dean, like a benevolent god. "Son, I need you." 

Dean laughs. It bubbles up in him like bitter soda water, and he lets it go, lets it pop. He sits there with his broken hand against his chest and laughs. It hurts. It aches. 

"I don't know what you are," Dean says. "But you're not my father."

"Dean-"

"This?" Dean says. He holds up his ugly, bleeding hand. "Maybe. If I screwed up bad enough. But, _I need you_?" Dean shakes his head. "You've got to be fucking kidding me." The thing inside John smiles again, less warmly. John's eyes flicker and go yellow, sickly yellow and burning. 

"You're as insufferable as they say, Dean Winchester. And your father was no better. He goaded me to this. Even as I burned away his being, he made the most inane, arrogant comments."

"Good for him," says Dean.

"Your mother, though," it says, thoughtfully, and Dean's blood freezes in his veins. "Such a frail little thing."

"No," Dean says. "No."

"She begged me. For her pathetic-" it says, and Dean launches himself up in a fury, knocks himself into John's body shoulder-first. He barely even feels the pain lance through his hand and arm, barely feels anything as he gets toppled back onto the ground and hands wrap around his throat. "I should kill you like a muggle," the thing hisses, shaking Dean's head back and forth, choking him while Dean scratches at his face, John's face, his father's arms; tries to get a knee between them for leverage, to throw him off. But the thing in John's body is unbelievably strong. Dean's a rag doll in his grip. Dean sputters and struggles and everything starts to fuzz out around him- he can't hear anything but a ringing in his ears- and then suddenly there's air again, beautiful fucking air. Dean sucks in a breath and opens his eyes and there's John, sitting back on his heels, staring in blank confusion at an opening gash across his chest. Another one splits across his face and blood gushes out, sprays across Dean. John staggers back, standing up, hissing in rage, and Dean rolls to the side. He looks up.

Cas. _Cas_.

" _Sectumsempra_ ," Castiel says, slashing his wand across the air like a knife, and John goes backwards again, shrieking. Dean scrabbles on the ground for a second and his fingers find his lost wand. _Thank fuck_. He jams it down his shirt front. Castiel holds his hand out and Dean staggers to his feet, races for it, slaps his good hand down onto Castiel's palm and feels Castiel's fingers close around his wrist. Dean shuts his eyes and feels himself pulled through the void of the world. 

 

 

Castiel apparates them to a field somewhere- Dean has no idea where, how far- and when they land Dean kneels down and spews all over the ground at Castiel's feet. Dean shuffles away from the mess and sits down in the grass, empty and still reeling. "You're okay," Castiel says, from above him. He kneels next to Dean. He's soaked, completely soaked through. He smells like seawater. There's scum and sand crusted to his coat. There's a gash on his face and the start of a huge bruise across his cheekbone. But he still reaches up and rubs his thumb across the blood on Dean's face, under his eyes. Castiel's hand rests against his cheek. "You're okay," he says. Dean leans forward and pulls Castiel into his arms, practically into his lap. Dean didn't know he was shaking until just now, until the second he stops. Castiel is like a giant sponge, leaking water into Dean's jacket. He smells so fucking bad. Dean puts his face into Castiel's shoulder.

"Cas," he says. "I thought-"

"I'm a good swimmer," Castiel says, muffled. Dean gasps a laugh and holds him tighter and they rock there for a second, together. And then Dean pulls back a little, just far enough to be able to hold Castiel's neck with one hand and to press a kiss to Castiel's temple, and another one to the side of his face, and then one by the corner of his eye, where the curve of his eyelash sits against his cheek. Dean kisses him and then lets him go, lets him sink back up onto his knees. Castiel studies him for a long second, looking stunned. And then he leans forward and kisses Dean on the forehead, so gently it barely connects, holding the back of his bruised head with the tips of his fingers. After that he gets up, and helps Dean to his feet. He finally gets a look at Dean's injuries, and his eyes narrow with fury. "We need to take care of that hand," Castiel says. 

"I'm fine," Dean says, and then hisses in pain when the edge of his jacket brushes his palm. "Okay, yeah, let's get out of here." He hangs onto Castiel while they apparate a few more times, just to dust their tracks. Finally they land outside Hogsmeade, at a spot Dean is starting to recognize. He doesn't know how long it takes to walk to the safe house; he's starting to come down off the adrenaline and everything seems like it's in slow-motion. Castiel gets him inside and upstairs into the bathroom. Between the two of them they manage to re-set Dean's hand and get it healing. It's going to throb miserably through the night, Dean knows, but at least the bones are back in place and growing fast. Dean heals the wound on Castiel's head and checks him for fractures; apparently, he landed in deep water okay but then got bashed against the rocks by the current. "Lucky," Dean says. He strokes his good hand through Castiel's hair, totally and only to make sure there's nothing he's missed. "So fucking lucky."

Dean means to just crash after that, to go to sleep in his own bed- he really, really does- but he's brushed his teeth and rinsed away the bile and so there's nothing really stopping him from meeting Castiel in the doorway to his room and leaning into him and pressing their mouths together. Castiel makes a surprised sound at first, but then he opens his mouth and curves into Dean, runs his hands along Dean's hips to pull him closer, and they stay like that for a while, kissing slow and deep, Dean's good hand resting on Castiel's waist. And then Dean says,

"Do you- uh. Do you wanna come to bed?"

Castiel's eyes go wide at that for a second, bare and sad in a way that Dean doesn't understand, but then he says _yes_ and lets Dean lead him into his room. They lie against each other under the blankets, Dean's busted hand resting safely on top of his chest and Castiel curled into his side.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"That was- the one attacking you, it was-"

"Azazel," says Dean. "Yeah." He stares up at the ceiling. "Wearing my dad like a cheap suit. I don't know how it's possible. I've never seen magic like that."

"Neither have I." Castiel makes a thoughtful sound and Dean feels it radiate against him, like a little hum. It's kind of nice. "It could mean that when he returned from- wherever your mother sent him, he was without a body. If he was incorporeal, merely a spirit-"

"Cas?"

"Yes?"

"Tomorrow." Dean yawns. "We can worry about all this shit tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay." Dean feels him settling against his ribs, face pressed further down into his shoulder. He's so warm. This is all Dean wants right now- all he can deal with. He ought to be dead, they both ought to be dead. They aren't. So he just wants this bed, he wants Castiel next to him, real and solid and alive and okay. 

Everything else in the wide and fucked-up world can wait.

 

.


	9. Chapter 9

Dean wakes up warm- a little sweaty, even- for the first time since he came to this drafty house full of holes and cracks. It's Castiel wedged up against him, a human furnace with an arm around his waist. Castiel's still out, dead asleep and snoring a little though his open mouth. Dean flexes his healed hand a few times and finds it's whole again, aching sharply only when he curls it into a loose fist. Pretty good for an overnight fix. Probably helped that he slept so long, so deep, and so well. Dean looks down at the top of Castiel's head. The mess of his hair. It's matted and coarse and getting longer. The arm across Dean's stomach is ribbed with scars. Castiel didn't bother covering up everything last night, just came to bed in his bloodstained undershirt. He's pretty damn far from naked, but it's something. It sends a kind of jumpy current through Dean's nerves, sparks the butterflies, like he's still a fucking kid. Long time since he had a sleepover like this, that's for sure. Just- holding somebody. Holding somebody close, wanting to brush the hair off their forehead and kiss them awake. Wanting to rub a warm palm along his spine. Wanting to see Castiel on his back, half-awake and sleepy-soft, with his shirt pushed up and Dean's hands on his waist, Dean's mouth on his ribs. Dean shuts his eyes and wills himself to please shut the fuck up with the fantasies. He's already half-hard and feeling prickly, sensitive, wherever Castiel's skin is touching his. He shifts and Castiel's flannel-covered thigh slides up and Dean's cock rubs a seam in his boxers and _fuck_ , shit, not helping at all. Dean stares up at the ceiling, wondering if the universe is enjoying this. 

"Hm," Castiel says, then, low like he's muttering to himself. Dean realizes he is. Castiel rubs his face sleepily into Dean's chest and stretches his back out, curling and uncurling carelessly. His hand slides loosely, accidentally under the hem of Dean's shirt. And then he opens his eyes and blinks and freezes. "Um," he says. He withdraws the hand. "Sorry," he says. "I- we're, I'm sorry." He starts to sit up and Dean touches his arm, smiles at him.

"Hey," he says. "We're good." He glances down between them, trying to think of what he can say that won't ruin the moment. His upstairs brain's not functioning especially fast right now. "Uh, really good, in fact. You don't have to run off. You can stay. With me. If you want." He looks up and Castiel's cheeks are still a little flushed with sleep, his eyes dark and dilated. He's staring at Dean's mouth. 

"Do you want me to?" Castiel asks.

"Yes," Dean says. "I really do." He leans forward and puts his hand against Castiel's neck, draws him a little closer. Their heads bump together and Dean mouths a brief kiss against his temple, softer kisses down his jaw. "This okay?" he says, against Castiel's ear. "Can I-" he starts, and Castiel nods and shifts and then they're kissing, open-mouthed and deep, Castiel's tongue between his lips and his body over Dean's. Castiel slings his leg all the way over and settles in his lap; Dean's cock nudges up between them. He's seeing fucking starlight right now. He's jumping the goddamn moon. He just needs to know if Castiel- but then Castiel rocks down and gives Dean a pretty good illustration of just how into this he really is. "Oh my God," Dean says, when they part for a second. He slumps back onto the pillows and pulls Castiel with him to sprawl over his chest. Their mouths meet again and Castiel grinds down just when Dean's rocking upwards, and both of them make a kind of breathless, pleased noise that Dean is going to catalogue and replay over and over again next time he's alone. They stay like that for a minute, rubbing across each other in urgent, uncoordinated slides. "Cas, _fuck_ ," he groans, when Castiel leans down and sucks at the soft flesh of Dean's throat. Dean's hands go under the hem of Castiel's shirt and Castiel freezes again, puts one hand over Dean's. Holds him there. Dean's other hand stops moving, except to pet little circles around the meat of his hip. "Sorry," Dean says. "Can I-" he starts again, heart in his throat. "Can I touch you?" Castiel raises up and backs off a little bit.

"It's better if it stays on," he says, and rolls down against Dean, kisses his neck, slides down to Dean's shirt and tugs at the bottom. Dean sits up obediently and lets Castiel pull his shirt off; he lifts his hips when Castiel goes for the hem of his shorts. Castiel drags the elastic across his cock and Dean groans, then sags backwards when Castiel wraps a hand around him and starts to pull him in long, sure strokes. 

"Jesus _God_ ," says Dean. Castiel spits in his hand and slicks him up, going a little harder. "Cas, Cas," Dean says, helplessly jerking, feeling like he's making a fucking fool of himself. He's going to come like a teenager in roughly one minute and Cas is still wearing all his clothes. "Please," Dean says, and hooks one finger over the band of Castiel's pajama bottoms. Castiel lets go of Dean's cock for a second and looks down at himself with a kind of absent, distracted expression, like he brought a body to this party but forgot he was wearing it. Dean sits up and rubs his hand gently over Castiel's hip, palms his dick through his pants, and Castiel shuts his eyes and leans into Dean's shoulder, sucking in a breath. Dean strokes him through the fabric and Castiel shudders.

"I do, I want," Castiel starts, muffled in Dean's shoulder, and then cuts himself off with a hiss when Dean's hand slides between his legs, further back. "Touch me," he says, then. His hands go to the waist of his pants and hesitate there, but he unties the drawstring and slides them down past his hips. Dean's fucking transfixed by those beautiful hipbones, the muscles that curve out from the tops of his thighs. Castiel tugs the pants down past his cock and rolls onto his back to get them off, over his knees. Dean helps and then tosses the pants over his shoulder, looks down at Castiel under him. He sits between Castiel's thighs and strokes his palms over the tops of them. There are scars on the underside of his belly and the muscles of his legs, running scars like longitude lines, a precious map of skin that Dean wants to chart with his mouth. He says so, and Castiel turns his face to the side, looking away. "They're not- they're nothing," he says. "I wish you couldn't see them." Dean leans down and kisses a scar crossing his hip, licks it experimentally, and Castiel bucks up against him in surprise. His dick bumps Dean's cheek, leaves a little smear from the tip. 

"Hey," Dean says, smirking, "yeah, good idea." Castiel stares at him and Dean curls down to take Castiel's cock in his mouth, licks a swirl around the wet tip, bobs to take him into his throat. Castiel laughs until he gasps and says something in a foreign language and bangs his head backwards against the headboard. Dean hums in approval and sucks in earnest, puts his thumb and forefinger around the base to stroke in time with his upward pulls. Dean brings one of Castiel's hands to the side of his head and gets him to hold on, gently at first and then firmer, running his thumb tenderly along Dean's ear while he arches up to slide his cock between Dean's lips. It doesn't take very long. Castiel thrusts up until he's trembling under Dean.

"Dean, I-" he says, and Dean locks eyes, nods, and takes Castiel down into the back of his throat. Castiel jerks up and spills and Dean swallows most of it, gets a smear on the corner of his mouth that he wipes with the back of his hand and then licks clean. He licks Castiel's dick clean, too, for good measure, until Castiel is writhing away from him, laughing again softly, over-sensitive. But not so stunned that he forgets what he was doing earlier: Dean feels his hand curl around his cock again, wet with spit. Castiel jerks him and kisses him and Dean comes between them with a little held-in cry, resting his forehead down against Castiel's collarbone. "Good?" Castiel murmurs. Dean kisses that collarbone and up his neck and then his mouth, twice.

"You are," he says, "amazing."

Castiel doesn't say anything about that. Doesn't agree, doesn't smirk or preen. But he doesn't argue, either. His eyes, holding Dean's, are inhumanly bright. He lies there sideways against the pillow and Dean props himself up on one elbow to look at him. Their naked, sweaty knees bump together. Dean feels like his heart's beating in his ears. He leans forward and kisses the soft swell of Castiel's cheekbone and Castiel smiles at him, crookedly, helplessly, closing his eyes. 

Dean takes the first shower and he hopes that Castiel will shed that frigging undershirt and join him, but he doesn't. Castiel slips into the bathroom, dressed again, when Dean's finished, and comes out wet and wrinkled in a button-down and trousers. But he's rolled the cuffs up. Castiel is pink and he smells like soap and still a little bit like sex. Dean can't help but stop him in the doorway and kiss him again in the steam that's rolling out of the bathroom. Like there's a magnet in Castiel and metal filings in Dean's blood, in his bones. In his everything. After, Dean watches Castiel pad down the stairs. It's strange. He feels overwhelmingly like he wants to rub his face all over Castiel's and take him back to bed. He is not going to say anything like that out loud. 

Downstairs in the kitchen, Castiel makes tea. Dean sits in the living room and flips through the journal, re-reading his decoded section on Caldey Island. There's nothing else useful there that Dean can find, so he shuts it and slides it away. Castiel comes in with two mugs of tea in one hand and a tattered hardback book in the other. 

"It's in Welsh," Castiel says, and hands it over. "I thought you might have a better chance with it." Dean turns it over in his hands.

"Holy places?" he reads, off the cover. "This is some kind of guidebook?"

"Looks like." Castiel blows across the top of his mug. "I picked it up months ago and never got the chance to do a translation. It seems relevant now."

Dean sits back to read.

 

 

The phrasing in the book is clunky and old-timey and there are a lot of words that Dean doesn't remember, or else never learned. But he does manage to muddle through the bit on Caldey Island, and he comes up with: "A well."

"I don't understand."

"A buried well. That's what they were digging up. Says here, the whole island used to be called _Ynys Pyr_. Pyr's island. Apparently he was an abbot, but not a real good one. One night he got drunk and wobbly and tipped himself down a well. That has to be what they were looking for."

"A stone from the side of a well." Castiel sits forward, staring holes into the guidebook. "An ash wand. Saint's bones. Bone, wood, and stone."

"Sounds like a spell to me."

"It sounds-" Castiel suddenly jolts up and goes back to the bookcase; he fumbles through the spines and pushes things aside in his haste. Dean follows him over and watches as Castiel pulls a book out, rejects it, flips through another. And then he holds a page out to Dean in triumph. There's a picture of a triangle with a circle inside, a line through the center. Dean knows it. He used to read from this book to Sam, curled up under the blankets with a _lumos_ from his brand-new wand. He remembers how he used to stumble over the part about the resurrection stone. How'd he'd lie awake afterwards, listening to Sam wheeze a little in his sleep, wondering if it was real. If he could find it. God, he was a sad, stupid kid. "It sounds like the deathly hallows," Castiel says. "Stone, wand. Bone instead of cloak, but," he shrugs. "It could be something similar. Talismans, tokens."

"The hallows are a legend."

"Annwn is a legend," says Castiel. "Doesn't mean it isn't true. Or based in something real. The hallows are supposed to control death- they let you hide from it, undo it, control it." He leafs through the pages and Dean sees other illustrations- black shadows spreading across the page, a faceless figure in a hooded cloak. It sends a shiver up his spine. Dean shutters that side of himself, swallows those thoughts down. They're not wanted. This isn't the time. "That's exactly what Azazel wants. What he's been seeking." Dean sighs and scrubs a hand across his face. He can't make them go away, those shadows. Not as easily as he likes. "Dean," Castiel says. He comes closer, leans in. "Are you alright? Is your hand-"

"Hand's fine," he says. It's only kind of a lie. It still twinges when he moves it, and this morning's workout didn't do it any favors. Which hey, Dean finds impossible to regret. He'd stick his hand in _The Monster Book of Monsters_ if it meant a repeat performance. "Cas, I think- honestly, I think we're spinning wheels right now. We're a step behind. We need another head in this game."

"You've said you don't trust the Order."

"I don't," says Dean. "But Bobby Singer isn't the Order." Castiel gives him a measured stare. And then turns back to his bookshelf, sliding a few scattered volumes into their places.

"I agree," he says. "We need help."

"Bobby's solid," Dean says. "I'd stake my life on him."

"You trust him," Castiel says, without turning around. "That's enough."

So Dean finds himself in the living room, piling coals into the dirty old fireplace, hoping that the chimney's not so clogged that they'll asphyxiate fifteen minutes into the call. He taps the hearth with his wand and the coals burst into flames, glowing orange and white. They burn steady for an hour or so, while Dean waits and paces and eventually flips open the old Welsh guidebook he left sitting on the rug. Most of the places are things he's never heard of, dusty churches and ancient graveyards and lots of saints. The landscape is littered with them, Dean thinks to himself. Saint Govan's holy cave, Saint Canna's holy well. Poor old murdered Saint Afan. He reads that entry over, because something's familiar about it. Something about a church and a circle and a yew tree. _Yew_. It sticks in his head, catches on something like a sweater snagging on a branch. But suddenly the fire sputters and rustles and Bobby's face pops out of the fire, flaming beard and frown intact.

"Do me a favor," Bobby says. "Go look at a clock, and then think about what time-"

"Give it a rest," Dean says. "I know you were up. Bet you ten sickles, you were out on the dock talking to the damn ravens."

"Oh, hell." Bobby spits out a spark. "What's on your mind?"

"You're not going to like it," Dean says.

"Kid," says Bobby, "I never do."

 

 

When Dean's finished telling his story- and Bobby's done yelling at him and sending a shower of tiny coal bits all over the carpet- Bobby chews his lip for a while and asks a couple of questions. And then _hmms_ and _wells_ some more. "I'll look into it," he says at last. "Might be able to dig something up on the hallows, at least. Give you an idea what you might be facing. By the way, I checked up on that scarring spell. No curse that I know of leaves marks like that. Except if you got somebody turning into-"

"Uh," says Dean. He's conscious of Castiel, somewhere in the house. "Don't worry about it. I figured it out. Thanks, Bobby," he adds. And then, even though he feels like an idiot: "You talked to Sam lately?" he asks. He should just open up his goddamn cell phone or pull the mirror out of his duffel. He shouldn't be such a fucking baby. "Is he doing okay? School alright?"

"He's fine," Bobby says. "Although-"

"What?" Dean's heart seizes for a second. "What is it?"

"He's got this brother, never calls him," says Bobby. "Kind of a sad situation, you ask me." 

"Yeah, I know." He smiles, bitterly. "He's a real dick."

"Hey now," Bobby snaps. He sounds serious. And kind of angry. "He's twice the wizard and ten times the man his daddy was. He's just got no damn faith in himself." Dean doesn't say anything. His face feels warm, but it's probably just sitting too close to the fire. His eyes prickle. "That kid-"

"Bobby," says Dean. "I don't think we're talking about the same guy."

"Give me a break," Bobby huffs, and vanishes down into the coals.

"So," says Castiel, from the doorway. Dean turns to look up at him. His face is calm but his eyes are soft and worried. Dean doesn't know how much of that he heard. Hopefully not that last bit of bullshit. Dean doesn't need anybody feeling sorry for his pathetic ass. "Did that go alright?"

"Fine," says Dean.

"Hungry?"

"Starving," says Dean.

 

 

In his dreams he's five years old again, and he needs a drink of water. 

It starts like this, just a thirst. A thirst and darkness, the cradle of a bedroom, familiar walls. White plaster and painted stars above him, in constellations that turn slowly. Just like the real sky. A beautiful charm. He remembers her making it, with her hair tied up and her nose splashed with paint. She let him grip the brush in his chubby hands and dab the ceiling, she laughed whenever he did. _Come on then, dyn bach_ , she says, now, then, forever. She holds him up to brush his fingers across the comet trails. _Choose, darling_. Pick a star. Make a wish.

But he's so thirsty. Dean feels himself get up, slide out from the warm covers to put his small feet against the bare wood floor. The cottage was always cold but he never minded it, not when he was always getting scooped up into her arms or his da's, strong arms that circled him and tucked him into blankets, into sweaters. Hot mugs of chocolate from the stove, warm bread and mittens. Dean's feet are cold. He wobbles to the door and pushes it open. There's light in the hallway, voices. Something that hurts Dean's ears. The sound of angry voices and-

"By the Holywell," she says. There's a roar like thunder, like a storm. An explosion that shatters the hall. "By the ancient yew, by the wheel-" she shouts. There's a burst and more screaming. Hers. And someone- something else. And Sammy shrieking. More voices from downstairs, boots and yelling. His father. Dishes falling down and breaking into a million pieces, the house quaking. Dean collapses to the ground; he can't move. He's too afraid, it's too much. His little heart shakes in his body. But he hears her, and he has to- he has to keep going. She's in there. Sammy's in there. He crawls. He crawls to the edge and he can't see her, can't see anything- only white light and rushing wind. Her voice is so strange. So horrible. He's never heard her angry. It scrapes at him, like broken stones. She screams. Dean puts his tiny hands over his eyes. "By- _get away from my son!_ " And a shadow bursts across them, a great black shadow like wings stretches over them like clouds, pouring across the ceiling like smoke from a rolling fire. Dean feels himself pulled to his feet, and it's her, it's just her; there's blood and ash on her face but she's holding him, kissing his head, telling him- "Take him." She shoves a crying bundle in his arms. It takes him a second to recognize Sam. "Take him, sweetheart, go- _brysiwch_!" Something crackles above his head and she whips around, says a word he doesn't understand. And then he's running down the hall, down the stairs, ducking under falling books, falling mugs, everything in the house is falling. Dean runs for the door and there's a big man there, a big cloak with a hood and a horrible bone mask, and Dean can't help it, he shrieks in fear and falls back, clutching Sam to his chest. Sammy cries harder, hollers red-faced and terrified, and suddenly there's daddy, there's daddy with his wand, blowing the shadow out the door, hollering for Dean, scooping them both up in his arms. Dean feels cold air on his face and looks up- stars, tiny stars in the vast sky, so many stars- and then-

-and then the house bursts into flames and Dean wakes up, howling.

" _Dean_ ," says Castiel. Dean shoves him away, off his chest, writhes out of his arms and catches himself in the blankets, rolls right off the edge of the bed and cracks his shoulder on the bedside table, bangs his knee on the floorboards. Getting the wind taken out of him finally clears the fog. He lies back, panting, on the floor. The sheets are still twisted around him and Castiel is sitting on the edge of the bed, other foot on the floor, hands out in front of him like he wants to pull Dean up. But he doesn't. He just sits there, waiting, watching. Dean curls himself upright and then folds himself over, face hidden in his hands, knees rising to his chest, pulling himself into a little knot. Dean wants to fucking disappear.

"Uh," he says. He grinds the heels of his hands into his eyes. His cheeks are wet, but he doesn't remember crying. Fuck. This is out of fucking control. "Sorry. Sorry I woke you up." He rubs his hands through his hair, curls them against the back of his neck. He's not sure if he's sweating or freezing. Maybe both. Christ, he's still so thirsty. "Go back to sleep, Cas."

But Cas comes down to the floor, slowly, and sits beside him.

"May I-" he says, and stretches his arm in Dean's direction. Dean lifts his head and looks at him- at his arm, up to his face- and nods, dully. So Castiel slides closer, wraps an arm around Dean's shoulder, and draws him in until Dean's head is touching his. Dean huffs out in embarrassment but he doesn't pull away. Cas is warm and his arm is a solid weight on him and it just feels- it feels so fucking good. After a minute, Dean leans down and lets his head thump down against Castiel's shoulder. Castiel's other arm comes around him, too, and then Dean is just slumping down into him, melting against his chest, curled like a knot inside his arms, hanging on for dear life. He really ought to care. Sex is one thing, even sleeping together, but he's never let anybody- not after a nightmare. Never before this. It's been so long since he had that dream. Fuck, he thought maybe- maybe he was past it. He isn't. He does feel queasy. But Castiel is rubbing a slow circle around his back, up his neck and along his shoulder. His hands are really gentle.

"I told everyone I didn't remember," he says, muffled in Castiel's arms. "I was so little. I thought I could forget it if I tried." Castiel rubs his cheek against Dean's scalp. Dean closes his eyes and leans into it. "But I remember everything." He thinks about the black shadow that filled the ceiling above him. "I think you're right," Dean says. "About Azazel. I think whatever she did, it- tore him out of his body. But he didn't die."

"You don't have to talk about this right now," Castiel says.

"I do," Dean says, and straightens up a little. "I do. I've been trying to block it out but there's something- there's something there in that memory, in that night." He looks at his hands, wrapped around Castiel's wrists. "Yew," he says. Castiel looks confused.

"Me?"

"No, the- the tree. The yew tree." Dean turns in his arms to look at him. "She said something. Something about a holy well and a wheel and a yew tree. Something else. But she never finished it. I never heard the last part." 

"Holy well," Castiel repeats. His eyes widen. "The _Holywell_. Saint Winifred's well." He grips Dean's arms. "Dean," he says. "Maybe we've been doing this all wrong. We've been chasing them. Trying to find what they're after. But what if-" he says, and Dean feels something like a current pass between them.

"-what if we're looking in the wrong place?" Dean finishes. "Her spell. The one that broke his power. If we could find it, finish it-"

"We could end him."

They sit in silence for a minute, awed, like children who've frightened themselves. And then Castiel cups the side of Dean's face in his hands, runs his thumb along Dean's cheek. "We can win," he says. 

Dean wants to believe it.

 

.


	10. Chapter 10

The Holywell is mostly empty of visitors when they arrive in the morning; there's a custodian lingering around the bathing pool and a couple of elderly women sitting on benches along the outer wall. Dean and Castiel go through the chapel and linger there for a second while some visitors pass, then they go down to the crypt. It smells like clean water to Dean, oddly sweet and fresh, even though the place is ancient and the walls are stained with age and wear. The edges of the old steps are worn away, thinned by time and tread. Dean has to watch his feet. Castiel trails behind him, walking slowly, like there's something on his mind.

"So," Dean says, when they're standing in front of the basin. "Saint Winifed."

"A sworn virgin," Castiel says. "Beheaded. And restored to life through the prayers of her uncle. Also a saint, of course." They glance around, but nobody's there to pay any attention to two shifty-looking dudes with half-hearted glamours on. Dean kneels to dip a flask into the spring. He holds it under the surface until the air bubbles out and it fills with water. The water's cold, bitingly so, and the small hairs on the back of his hand stand up. Tiny bubbles cling to his skin. "Although," Castiel adds, "wizards tend to claim Beuno for the wand, rather than the cross." Dean shrugs.

"Could be both," he says. He caps the flask and looks up at the ceiling, where light bounces up off the water, and plays in patterns over stone. "My mother had faith." He tucks the flask inside his jacket. "Didn't save her. But I'm not sure it hurt, either."

"You don't share her convictions."

"I don't know," Dean says. "Most of the time, I think about what's right in front of me."

They go back up through the chapel and sit there for a couple of minutes while a little tour group goes by; Dean and Castiel lower their heads and make like good pilgrims. Dean stares down at his feet mostly, but after a second or so he looks over at Castiel. Castiel's got his eyes shut and his hands folded in his lap. He looks like the real deal. Dean takes the opportunity to look at him; the hollow slope of his cheeks and the jut of his jaw and the furrow between his eyes, thoughtful. Dean thinks about kissing the skin under his eyes, up around his temples; smoothing the lines from his forehead. He wants to be back in that rickety bed, holding Castiel's arm against his chest. Castiel frowns without opening his eyes and Dean startles back into his own personal space, trying to clear his head. Real nice church thoughts there, Winchester. The tour group goes out and they stand up, alone again. Outside, the air's cold but the sun has come out. There's an elderly man being helped out of his coat in front of a yellow changing tent.

"People still take the waters," Castiel says, oddly quiet. "Did you see-"

"The piles of crutches, inside?" Dean nods back towards the chapel. "Yeah. For their sakes, I hope it's all true. Hope it is a miracle dip."

"If only," Castiel says. He's staring down at the surface of the water. The spring is powerful, and the ripples move slow and steady across the pond. There's a silence between them, broken by the sound of birds in the trees past the wall: bright chattering, rustling leaves.

"Hey," Dean starts, and trails off. Castiel looks at him. "You want to?"

"It's foolish," Castiel says. His eyes lower to the water again, then slide away in disgust. "We should-"

"Cas," Dean says, and puts a hand on his sleeve. "Do you want to?" he repeats, lower. He moves closer, so that there's barely any space between them. Castiel tenses, then lets his shoulders sag down. He looks defeated. Kind of ashamed. "It's okay," Dean says. "It's okay if you don't, and it's okay if you do. We're here, aren't we?" He squeezes Castiel's arm. "We're here. There's no rush."

"It won't change things," he says, almost in a whisper. "It can't."

"Probably not," Dean says. "Does it matter?"

So Dean stands outside the changing tent while Castiel strips off his coat and shirt and shoes, goes down to his dorky plain boxers and threadbare undershirt. He comes out barefoot and trembling slightly from the colder air. Dean puts an arm around his shoulders until the caretaker motions Castiel forward to the smaller bath. And then Castiel uncurls from his spot under Dean's arm and goes into the little pool, one foot at a time, slowly but not flinching much, just grimacing as the cold water creeps up his skin, prickling the hairs on his legs and up his thighs. Dean watches him. Castiel didn't bother to glamour his arms and legs, didn't smooth the skin out- he's bare, bare like he only is for Dean, pink and white lines or scar tissue stark against his skin. He's bloodless from the cold. Castiel wraps his arms around his stomach and mouths something- a prayer, a spell maybe- and then goes down into the water without splashing much. He shudders and stands and does it again twice, and then he's led- blue and shaking- by both Dean and the old caretaker into the large pool. Castiel kneels in silence against the _Maen Beuno_ in the water, hands over his face to hold his chattering jaw still; back trembling and jolting, making little ripples in the water, until Dean can't stand it any more. "Come on," he says, and leans down to grab at Castiel's shirt, to slide a hand under his wet arm and pull him upright. "Cas, come on, get up." Dean has to help him out of the freezing water when Castiel's knees buckle a little; has to help him peel out of his soaked undershirt and wrap a borrowed towel around him and rub at his hair, his back, until he's pink-cheeked and breathing normally again. Inside the yellow tent Castiel dries off and slides back into his rumpled clothes and lets Dean towel his hair some more when water drips down the back of his collar. Castiel lets Dean cup their hands together and whisper _esto gynnes_ into them; Castiel sighs and leans harder on Dean, and Dean knows then that the warmth from the charm is working, pooling around him, up his spine and down his limbs and into the tips of his fingers. And okay, if Dean kisses his nose a couple of times to make sure that he's warm enough, nobody ever has to know.

Dean stops back inside the chapel and drops some extra muggle coins into the donation box, and when he comes out, Castiel is sitting on one of the stone benches staring down into the water again, rubbing his wrist under the shirt cuff.

"Nothing's different," he says. 

"Give it time," Dean says, and holds his hand out. Castiel takes it to stand, and they walk out together back towards town.

 

 

 

Back at the safe house there's a raven hopping around the front stoop, tapping the flagstones with the tip of its beak, looking pretty pissed. 

"Holy shit," Dean says, when they get close enough to see the small scroll strapped to one leg. "Hey buddy," Dean says, and holds his arm outstretched. " _Dod yma_ ," he says, sing-song, gentle; and the raven hops back and forth uncertainly. "It's okay- come on, _bran_ , come here." The raven flaps up and swoops over to Dean then, latching onto his coat sleeve and nipping excitedly at his shoulder. It croaks and snuggles against him, obviously exhausted. "How the fuck did you get over here?" he marvels at it, stroking the soft feathers of its throat, while the bird preens and shifts and glares at Castiel nervously every few seconds. "Bobby must be feeding you straight dittany if he's got you flying the fucking ocean." Castiel leans closer to take a look at the scroll and the bird lashes out, clipping the back of Castiel's hand with its beak. Dean shakes the raven off in surprise and yells at it as it circles him, and then tries to look at the cut. But Castiel presses his hand under his arm and refuses to let Dean touch it.

"It's fine," Castiel says. He looks down at the raven, now puttering around the yard again, casting murderous glances backwards at the two of them. "I shouldn't have gotten so close."

"I don't know what his problem is," Dean says. He holds his hand out to the bird and clicks his tongue and the raven hops back up, grumpily. "He isn't usually such an asshole. Hey," Dean says and taps his beak gently. "This is Castiel. Castiel, Smoky Joe." Castiel stares gravely across at the bird. The raven ignores him and rubs its beak across Dean's shoulder. "Don't act like such a jerkoff," Dean tells him.

"Smoky Joe?"

"Bobby names 'em all after old Sox players," Dean says.

Inside, Dean takes the scroll off the raven's leg and hands it over to Castiel, then puts out a dish of water and slices an apple into tiny chunks. The bird eats sloppily, pushes the apples around the table, and sprays water onto Dean's shirt front. Then it hops up to the top of the bookcase, hunkers down into itself, and falls asleep in a couple of minutes, making weird contented noises. Dean snorts and cleans the table but finds Castiel watching the raven, fascinated, from his seat in the armchair on the opposite side of the room. "They're smart as hell," Dean says. "Good memories, too. Bobby teaches them to solve puzzles. You ever kept a bird?"

"No," Castiel says. The raven shifts and stutters in its sleep, tucking its head lower into the soft feathers of its breast. "They don't respond well to me."

"Not a bird person, huh?"

"It's not the person they take issue with," Castiel says, and Dean feels like a fucking jackass.

"Oh," he says. "Right."

The scroll's encoded but Dean knows Bobby's tricks by now. It only takes him ten minutes to get the message: _SENDING YOU A TALL ORDER SAY WHEN AND WHERE_. 

"That's- vague," Castiel says. Dean shrugs.

"He knows we're on lockdown over here. He could have told me that through the fireplace, but hey," Dean shrugs. "He's a paranoid old son of a bitch." He rubs the scroll between his fingers, thinking. "Wish I knew what he was talking about. Hey, you think he's figured out the wheel thing? Maybe he's sending us a covered wagon." Castiel looks blank. "I'm kidding. But we do need to give him coordinates. Someplace secure."

"Not here," Castiel says. "This is- it's the most secure, but-"

"It's your house," Dean says. "I get it. Somewhere less personal."

"The farm," Castiel says, suddenly. "Dufftown."

"Your cold storage?" Dean sits forward. "That's perfect." 

In the early morning they send the raven back out, grumbling and croaking, into the broad blue expanse of the sky. It circles a couple of times and yells at Dean and then flaps its way off into the distance. It's a faint black dot before Dean knows it, small and fragile under the clouds. Castiel stands next to him in the back garden with a mug of tea steaming in his hand. When he curls against Dean and murmurs, _back to bed_ , against his shoulder, Dean feels the chill in the air slide under his collar while a warm heat blooms in his gut. "Yeah," he says. "Definitely." Castiel takes him to bed and then takes him apart with infinite patience, and then drapes himself over Dean's stomach, his cheek soft and hot and still flushed against Dean's chest. Long after the sun's come resolutely up and been up for hours they are still lying there tangled in each other, talking softly, Castiel's head pillowed on the meat of Dean's shoulder, his stomach rising and falling against Dean's hip with every inhalation.

"I was nine," he says. 

It's been so long since Dean last spoke, he's almost forgotten he asked the question. But he strokes Castiel's back and listens, waits for Castiel to elaborate. If he's going to. "I don't remember everything. Just. I remember sitting in the stream for a long time afterwards, holding myself under the water. I was bleeding and I thought that I should- keep clean." Castiel shudders and Dean tightens the arm around him, reflexively; draws the blankets up to cover his naked shoulder. "I remember the cold. My mother found me first. But there were other wizards and a dog, tracking it- and the dog lost control when it came near me, and I knew- I knew then. I didn't realize before. I thought I'd- it was more like a dream, than real life." Dean doesn't have anything to say to that, so he says nothing. He presses a kiss to Castiel's flattened hair. "My mother never- she was very kind," he says, softly. "I couldn't go to Hogwarts, or Durmstrang, or Salem. I was barred. Every spell I know, she taught me."

"And your dad?"

"I don't have a father," Castiel says, stonily.

"I'm sorry," Dean says, "I didn't-"

"Don't worry," Castiel says. He leans into Dean's skin, touches his mouth against him in something very like a kiss. "It's okay." He settles down and his breath evens out and for a while, Dean thinks he's already nodded off, but then every now and again Castiel's fingers press against his ribs, one by one, gently, in patterns. 

Dean falls asleep petting circles on his back, round and round and round, and dreams about wheels turning through soil, through sand.

 

 

.


	11. Chapter 11

Three days later, and they are sitting on a low stone wall overlooking the sheep farm in Dufftown, somewhere out at the furthest edge of the field. It's bitterly cold that morning. Castiel apparated while still stubbornly clutching his mug, and he sits there sipping tea out of it, face buried in an enormous wool scarf, while Dean's teeth chatter and he rubs his fingers together in his pockets, trying to keep some sensation.

"Bobby said-"

"Bobby said six o'clock our time," Dean repeats. His words go out like fat clouds and hover between them. "It's fifteen minutes past and I am fucking _freezing_." Castiel's eyes narrow over the top of his scarf.

"Dean," he says. "You are better at heating charms than anyone I have ever met in my life."

"Uh, thanks," Dean says.

" _Dean_."

"Fine," Dean says, and cups his hands together, mutters into his palms. Warmth floods his skin and his core, shoots through his limbs with a pleasure that borders pain. It's fantastic and Dean probably makes an audible noise of delight. Castiel rolls his eyes heavenward. Dean tries not to feel mocked. "I don't need to work a charm every time the wind blows," he mutters. 

"Sometimes you are almost unbearably Welsh," Castiel says. Dean is summoning up a suitably cutting response when there's a tension in the air, a sharpness, the unmistakable first snap of power opening itself across great distance. Castiel draws his wand. "Just in case," he says, and Dean nods and draws his own. There's a shudder and a popping noise and then a very very tall man is standing in the middle of the field, right in the middle of a mud puddle. His back is to Dean and Castiel. _Holy shit_ , Dean thinks. Holy fucking shit. "Who is that?" Castiel says. He looks at Dean. "Who is that?" he demands. But Dean just goes forward through the brittle, half-dead grass and muck and stares at him as he walks, this tall kid with the floppy hair and the satchel slung over his back and the portkey dangling from one hand; Dean feels his face splitting into a grin, even though he's pretty sure he's been a fucking dick for the last six months and he has no idea whether he's about to get hugged or punched. Christ, but Bobby got him good this time.

"Sammy," he calls, and Sam turns around. His face lights up and Dean breaks into an ungainly sprint through the mud. "Sam!" he says. He lurches forward and Sam catches him and they shuffle around for a second, patting each other's backs awkwardly, until Dean gives up and just squishes his enormous, gangling mass into a hug. They squeeze and break apart and Dean holds him at arm's length. "Tall order, huh," he says, grinning. "He sent me a friggin' giant."

"Is that what Bobby said?" Sam's face scrunches up, hilariously. "I told him-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know, your feelings," Dean says. He turns around to introduce Castiel but Castiel's still standing at the top of the rise with his hands in his pockets, wand already tucked back into his coat. He sees Dean looking and gives them a stilted little wave. "That's Castiel," Dean says to Sam. "He was, uh, he knew dad a little bit, and he's been- we're kinda working together." He doesn't know how much Castiel would mind him telling, so he doesn't say anything about the- other stuff. The werewolf stuff, or the amazingly wonderful sex. He pats Sam again and they trek up the hill together. "Cas," he says, when they get closer. "Sam. My brother."

"Good to meet you," Castiel says, and extends his hand stiffly, like this is some kind of business meeting, like two out of the three of them aren't covered to the ankles in sheep shit. Sam takes his hand and shakes it, smiling.

"You too," Sam says. He looks back at Dean. "I'm here to help. Any way I can."

"Uh," Dean says. "Okay, we'll talk. But first things first."

"I assume you mean breakfast," Castiel says, flatly, and Sam cracks up, slapping Dean on the shoulder. Castiel stares at him from behind the scarf with a kind of baffled, dawning smile. 

"It's the most important meal of the day," Dean says.

"You told me that was dessert," says Castiel.

 

 

 

Before they leave for the safe house Dean sighs and makes Sam rolls his sleeve up and submit to a revealing charm, which he passes, because he's not a metamorphmagus or some asshole running around with polyjuice and a stolen hairbrush. Dean feels like a jerk for doing it at all, but Sam says he understands completely, and just stands there serious-faced and absurdly tall through the brief procedure. 

"I know you weren't expecting me," Sam says, apologetically. "Bobby thought it was better that way."

"I bet he did," Dean mutters. 

They get back and Castiel vanishes into the kitchen to make tea and slice up some bread and cheese, and Sam walks around the room touching everything and holding a half-dozen old grimoires to his chest with excitement. 

"Is this a _manuscript_ copy of the _Book of Raziel_?" Sam says, open-mouthed like an excited kid. He holds it out to Dean with his fingertips. "I can't believe- oh my God, I'm leaving fingerprints on the cover," Sam says, in horror. He goes pale and puts it back on the shelf and then grabs another worn-out book from behind it. "Bobby's got this one," he says. "Agrippa's three books. He says it's a waste of time unless you-" Sam turns back to Dean and makes a sheepish face. "Sorry. I'll stop."

"I don't mind," Dean says. "They're not my books."

"Oh," Sam says. His jaw goes rigid with embarrassment. It's awesome. "Dean, you could have-" he starts, and Castiel comes through the doorway with a tray in hand and three mugs resting on it, three stacked plates. "Castiel, uh, I'm sorry for pawing your collection without asking."

"It's fine," Castiel says, and sets the tray on the table between the chair and sofa, closest to Dean. "You're interested in magic?"

"Yeah," Sam says. He shrugs. "Might be a squib, but a book's a book." Dean glares at him. "Come on, Dean, I am what I am."

"It's a stupid word."

"Sam, do you take sugar?" Castiel interrupts.

"Uh, no, thanks," Sam says. "Plain is good." He takes his cup politely and blows across the top. Dean catches him rolling his eyes, though, when Castiel heaps three tablespoons of sugar into Dean's mug and passes it over. They sit together and eat breakfast and Dean and Castiel fill Sam in on their progress. Turns out Bobby's been having him look up lore for the past two weeks, everything from death magic to myths about Annwn and the Grail. Sam's got some ideas about the relics, the ritual Azazel might be planning. "It's basically like knocking a hole in the wall between our world and the world of- well, the world of the dead," Sam explains. "It's almost exactly like the ritual Cadmus Peverell is supposed to have used. If you believe Beedle's original translation notes. I found a manuscript that might be the source for the story, but it was incomplete. You said he's got what so far?"

"The stone from the well, saint's bones, and dad's ash wand."

"Shit," Sam says. He sits back in his chair and thumps his hands on the armrests. "That's almost everything. He could be ready by now."

"Almost?"

"There's other stuff, your basic binders- asphodel from a grave, that kind of thing. But only one other big ingredient. The passage was pretty clunky to translate, but what it says is, _blood of the mortal enemy_. I'm not sure who that would even be. Azazel probably has a list of enemies as long as his arm." Dean and Castiel look at each other. Sam glances back and forth. "What?" Castiel gets up and puts the plates back into a pile and takes the tray out of the room without saying anything. Sam stares at Dean. "What's going on?"

"Uh," Dean says. "Bobby told you I, uh, faced him. Azazel. Right?"

"I know," Sam says. His eyes go wide. "Dean, he didn't- bleed you, did he?"

"No," Dean says. "He didn't have to. He's got, uh," Dean breaks off. "I didn't know how to tell you."

"Tell me what?"

"He's got dad," Dean says. "He's using him, he's- it's like he's possessed, he was- it looked like him, Sam, it talked like him, but it wasn't. He was gone. He wasn't there," he says, and his voice cracks a little. "I'm sorry, I should have said something, I should have-" but Sam just leans across the gap between their chairs and wraps his hand around Dean's arm. He looks wrecked, kind of nauseous, but he doesn't let go of Dean. "Yeah, okay," Dean rambles, not even making sense. 

"I didn't know," Sam says. "I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't know."

"He didn't deserve it," Dean says, angrily. "He could be a real- but _this_ , this is bullshit. He deserved better, than getting worn like a fucking boot."

"Yeah," Sam says. 

They sit in silence for a while. Sam squeezes his arm and then lets go, slumps into his chair a little deeper and leans back to stare at the ceiling. Dean scrubs at his face with both hands and tries to pull his shit together. When Castiel comes back he's got some notes for Sam to look at, and Sam hands over a couple of the books that he's got with him, and they spend pretty much the whole afternoon talking and taking notes and trying to figure out what the fuck _the wheel_ means and which yew tree is the right one. More than once Dean has to get up and leave the house and pace out in the yard with his hands in his pockets and the sky wide and grey above him. Dean sighs and exhales up towards the faint sliver of moon hanging overhead. Sam shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be caught up in his fucking mess of a life. But he is, he is here, and Dean's been missing him, and he doesn't think he has the strength at the moment to turn him around and send him packing again. Anyway. It's almost dinnertime, and the sky's gone dark at the edges. For a while, lacking anything useful to do, Dean circles the garden another time and actually takes a minute to look at the broken-edged planting beds and the rickety trellises. There's the skeleton of a kitchen garden still clinging to life in the stone planters along the back of the house. It could be good, this place. It could be solid again, if somebody felt like taking the time. Dean wonders what Castiel will do with it, or where he'll go when this is over. He doesn't know what Castiel does when he's not busy with the Order's dirty work, being on the front lines. He realizes, kind of uncomfortably, that he doesn't even know what Castiel _wants_ to do. He hasn't asked. Maybe that's weird. Maybe it's too much, too soon. Dean is toeing a loose brick absently when Sam leans out of the back door and tells him that the soup is done.

After supper Sam yawns open-mouthed like a giant floppy dog and stretches his arms behind his head on the sofa and says, "Whoa, sorry. Just a little jet-lagged, I guess." He turns to Dean. "I think I'm gonna turn in. Is there someplace I can sleep?"

"Um, well," Dean says. He looks at Castiel, and then at the sad old sofa, which would maybe fit the length of one of Sam's enormous legs. Maybe. "There's two rooms upstairs," he says, lamely. He doesn't say, _but we've only been using one_. He could say that. But he doesn't.

"We could transfigure the sofa," Castiel says, evenly, not looking at Dean.

"It's okay," Sam says, yawning again. "I don't want you to go to any more trouble than you have already. I can bunk with Dean, if he doesn't mind."

"Uh," Dean says. Castiel still isn't looking at him. He doesn't know what he's supposed to say. "I don't mind." And that was probably the wrong thing, crap, because Castiel gets up and clears his own dishes and walks off into the kitchen without saying a damn word. Dean is going to follow him but Sam tugs on his sleeve and asks him which room is his and he ends up showing Sam the upstairs and getting an extra pillow out of the cupboard for him. By the time he crosses the hallway Castiel's door is shut and there's a light under it and the faint sound of the old wireless set playing sad opera music at a volume only someone with enhanced hearing could truly appreciate. Dean goes into the bathroom and closes the door behind him, ostensibly to brush his teeth, but mostly to rest his face in his hands and think, _fuck, I fucked up_ , at himself half a dozen times. Finally he changes into a pair of old sweatpants and splashes water on his face and goes into his own room, where Sam is already passed out, face-down, over most of the bed. Dean sighs and gets under the covers and turns his back on Sam's snoring, shuts his eyes, tries not to feel cold without an arm around his waist, Castiel's slow breathing against his spine. It's only been a week. He's being a huge baby about it. Castiel probably doesn't even mind having a bed to himself for the night. Dean is kind of a grabby sleeper.

In the morning Dean wakes up to what he thinks is music; it takes him a couple of seconds to realize it's the urgent whistling of the outer wards as they're activated. He starts to roll out of bed, but thuds straight into a still-unconscious Sam. Dean swears and rolls off the other side, grabbing his wand off the dresser and running into the hall. He almost collides with Castiel- rumpled-looking, owl-eyed, shirt askew, fucking gorgeous- at the top of the stairs. 

"Wards," Castiel says. "First ring, one hundred yards out." Dean nods and they race down the stairs together in bare feet; Castiel heads for the back and Dean for the front, moving through the house in silence. Dean checks the side windows and doesn't see anything, except the morning's mist rising up and a couple of birds wheeling above the hill. He goes to the front door and puts his back against the wall, turns to check the front window. There's somebody coming up the path, heading straight for the house: just one person, looks like a woman in a long coat, or else somebody in robes. Dean whistles low and in a second Castiel is coming up behind him, quiet, wound like a spring. They watch the figure get closer and raise a wand to the second wards. The wards glow and then part for her smoothly.

"Hey," Dean says. "Is that- it is. You expecting her?" He looks at Castiel and Castiel shakes his head and they open the door and step outside; Dean shuts it and wards it fast again, even though there's still another ring of wards between the fence and the house. His little brother's in there, after all. They stand on the walk, freezing, and Bela comes up to the gate. She slips her wand back into her pocket and holds her hands up deferentially.

"Boys," she says. She sounds calm but there are dark circles under her eyes, a thin slash across her face, healing. Bela's hands shake, where they rest on the gate. "We have a problem."

.


	12. Chapter 12

"We were tracking Dolohov. One of Azazel's lieutenants, from the bad old days. He was underground for a long time- supposedly in Budapest, if you believe that windbag Frank Devereaux- but he's been back in London now for a month." Bela wipes a hand under her eye. "They're getting bolder and bolder. They're not afraid any more, now that he's back." Sam puts a cup of tea on the table by her elbow and Bela tilts her face up at him, fixes him with a stunning smile, even though her eyes are still red-rimmed. "Thank you."

"Y-you're welcome," Sam says.

"He's so much taller and friendlier than you," Bela says, to Dean, and curls her hand around the teacup. "I can see why you've been hiding him away." Dean rolls his eyes. 

"So you find Dolohov-"

"He found us. Knockturn Alley, last night. One minute we were following behind, and the next," she exhales shakily. "Chaos. We were ambushed. I couldn't reach him in time. The bastards didn't even pay me the courtesy of trying to kill me. Just stunned me, grabbed Severus, and vanished."

"No offense, but why would they want your brother?" Dean asks. 

"I grant he's not much in the manners department," she says, with a bitter half-smile. "But he's the finest mind in potions I've ever seen. And if Azazel is, as you've said- if he's possessing your father's- there could be certain, ah, certain things he'd need." Bela shifts, visibly uncomfortable with the subject. "To- preserve the body. It's not pleasant magic. But it is possible."

"Jesus," Dean says, and sits back. "Okay. So he wants go-juice. What would they need? Where could they be?"

"Dolohov's been coming and going from an old factory on the South Bank. It's the only lead I have, but I wasn't about to follow it alone."

"Why us?" Dean asks. Bela looks at Castiel.

"Because I trust him," she says.

"Okay," Dean says. "Okay." He sits forward. "We scope the place out. Go in quiet, see if we can find where they're keeping him." He glances around the table. "We any further on the mole thing?" Bela shakes her head, and Castiel just frowns. "So it's basically down to us. We give this to anybody else, we could get screwed. Set up."

"Dean," Castiel says, "I don't know if we three-"

"Four," Sam interrupts. "It's four."

"Like hell it is," Dean says.

" _Dean_ -"

"No fucking way," Dean says, tight and angry. "No, Sam."

"You need me," Sam says. "I-"

"Bobby sent you here for research. _That's_ how you can help. You keep working on that spell, you stay here, you stay put. You stay safe, you understand me?" Sam's hands curl into fists on the arms of his chair. "I said, you understand me?" Dean repeats. Sam shakes his head and gets up and stalks out of the room, through the kitchen; after a second, they hear the back door slam.

"I'm afraid I don't follow," Bela says, after a moment. "Isn't he-"

"He's not a part of this," Dean snaps. Bela looks him up and down, opens her mouth to say something, and shuts it again with a dry smile.

"Fine," she says. "None of my business, I suppose. Anyway. I've got diagrams for the factory. Two main entrances and a loading bay. Best chance is probably the rooftop, there's a skylight there that might not be warded as heavily." She rummages in her pocket for a moment and pulls out a folded paper, spreads it out across the tabletop. The factory schematics have been marked up, notes running across the bottom in a precise hand. "There. With only three, we might actually be able to slip by. I can go in first, I'm handy with other people's wards," she adds.

"Oh," says Dean, "we noticed."

 

 

 

Before they leave, while Castiel and Bela are putting things together into a couple of shoulder-bags, Dean goes out to the back garden and finds Sam still there, standing outside with a coat on, hands jammed in his pockets and cheeks red with the cold, shivering a little, face scrunched into a bitter scowl. Dean comes up behind him and stands there in front of the empty vegetable beds, looking out across the low hills, the rocky fields giving way to scrub forest. Sam shifts and sighs and finally turns to face him.

"I'm not a kid anymore," Sam says. "I'm not useless."

"Never said you were useless. That gigantic brain of yours, furthest thing from useless," Dean says, and Sam ducks his face away, shakes his head like he disagrees. He doesn't look at Dean. "Hey," Dean says. "I've got to know you're going to stay here and keep working. I can't be worrying about you, going into this fight."

"Yeah," Sam says, hollowly. "Fine."

"Okay." Dean rummages in his sling bag and pulls out a little glass jar, holds it out between them. "Insurance policy," he says, and Sam takes it. He holds it up to the fading afternoon light, turns it from side to side. The white feather inside falls gently against the glass without making a sound. "Anything happens while we're gone- anybody comes looking for us, and you don't know them, you break this and grab the feather. Portkey. One-way trip straight to Heathrow. No wizard's going to follow you there, not with a billion cops crawling around and thousands of people. You can call Bobby, get him to buy you a ticket home. You- hey, you brought your passport, right?" _Shit_. Dean didn't even think of that. He crosses borders whenever the fuck he feels like it, but Sam, Sam's stuck otherwise. But Sam just sighs and stuffs the jar into the front pocket of his hoodie and rolls his eyes at Dean like he's being a dumb mother hen.

"I'm a muggle, right?" Sam says. "I brought my passport."

"You're not a muggle," Dean says, reflexively.

"Go on," Sam says. "Get going. I'll be here."

"You promise?"

"Where the hell else am I gonna be?" Sam turns away from him again and stares up at the sky above the house; he exhales and a cloud of steam rises into the air, vanishes like smoke. "What am I going to do, hop a broom? Catch a dragon and put a little saddle on it?"

"I'd like to see that," says Dean. "Okay. Just remember what I said- anybody you don't know-"

"Break glass in case of emergency," Sam says. "Pretty basic." He doesn't say anything else for a minute, so Dean's already across the yard and halfway through the door when Sam calls, "Dean," over his shoulder. Dean stops and waits, and they look at each other. Despite all the dumb jokes, sometimes he forgets how tall Sam really is, when they've been apart so long like this. Forgets he's halfway to the fucking clouds. But other times he looks at the man and all he sees is the gangling kid: missing teeth in a doofy grin, cowlicks, skinned knees and determined eyes. Dean turned his back for a second and that kid was gone, while Dean wasn't paying attention. While Dean was busy digging graves and trying to keep John out of one. Dean stares at Sam and tries not to feel afraid that there might be something gone from the space between them, something lost, a wound that won't ever really close. And then Sam says, seriously, "You be careful."

"I will," says Dean.

Inside the house Bela and Castiel are waiting, talking in low tones over the factory plans. They break apart a little when Dean comes in. Castiel's eyes go up and across him for a second, gaze thoughtful, reading Dean like a page in a book. It makes Dean feel guilty for _probably_ no reason. Makes him wish he'd said something, done something different last night. If Dean dies busting out Bela's shitty little brother, he's going to feel like a fucking chump for spending the last night of his life in separate rooms enduring Sam's monster truck sinuses. _Think positive, Winchester_. "Ready?" Dean asks them.

"Raring," says Bela.

 

 

 

They go in a back way, apparating into a railyard south of the river, back-tracking a bit and then slipping into an unlicensed floo at a place Castiel knows. They're in a spot by the docks across from the old factory just after dark, sitting on a rooftop out of sight. Bela's got a spyglass but Dean's got muggle binoculars in his bag. He lies on his stomach with his elbows on the ledge, watching the guards at the loading bay stand around and cheat each other at cards. Beside him, Castiel keeps busy, silently packing instant darkness powder into the little shattering-glass vials he brought. Bela's on the other side, leaning up on one elbow to stare at Dean. She seems nervous; she keeps looking at him and Castiel, tapping her fingers on the ledge, making stilted small talk. Dean gets it. Her brother's in there. Dean would have kicked the doors in by now, good idea or not; he applauds her patience. "I'm curious," Bela says, after forty minutes or so of watching and waiting. Dean looks up from his view. "You have a certain attachment to muggle equipment." Dean looks at the binoculars in his hand and shrugs.

"You'd be surprised what comes in handy, up the mountain."

"Ah, that's right." Bela smiles. "Dean Winchester, dragon wrangler. No wonder none of this frightens you. You've done battle with fire lizards."

"Not so much," he says. He looks back down to the guards by the dock, still absorbed in a fourteenth round of un-exploding snap. "You can't fight a dragon. Well, okay, you can, if you've got frigging _Caledfwlch_ -"

"Gesundheit," Bela interrupts, and Dean glares at her.

"Excalibur," he says. "That'll do, for a dragon. Or Brightkiller, or White-Hilt, Hywelbane, or maybe an invisibility cloak and a rocket launcher." Bela gives him a slightly confused look. "Have you seriously never seen a rocket launcher? Boy," Dean says. "Wizards. You're missing out. It's basically a stick that makes explosions."

"I have one of those," says Bela. "So what do you do with dragons, then, all by your lonesome up in the wilds? Read them bedtime stories?"

"Maybe," Dean shrugs. "Sometimes it's about getting their trust. Keeping them calm. Like I said, you can't fight them. You can stun them or put them to sleep, but when they wake up you've got pissed-off dragon again. They're not just huge animals, they're-" he stops and looks upwards for a second, tries to find the right word. There's not really one big enough for them, for everything they are, he realizes. "They're magic," he says. "More than we are. They don't need wands or spells, they _are_ magic in a way we'll never be. So sometimes around them, shit goes wonky. Charms don't work. Curses bounce off. And sometimes," he says, reaching over to tap her spyglass, "these things fog and distort. Looking at a dragon through a charmed lens puts 'em on overload. So, binoculars." He settles back down to watch the factory. "Simple." Bela gives him a thin smile, but doesn't say anything to that. Dean leans onto his other side to look at Castiel, who's got the factory plans unrolled in his lap. Castiel is frowning, so Dean rolls up to kneel beside him. "What's on your mind?"

"Skylight's fine for going in," Castiel says. "But I don't like it for going out. We don't know the ward situation inside. If we can't apparate-"

"Yeah," Dean nods. "We're gonna want a door." He leans forward and taps the dock entrance on the plans. "This one?"

"It's the least heavily guarded."

"And those guys look pretty damn cozy. Nobody's gone in or out, and nobody's patrolling, looks like. So we stun them quick enough, might be an hour before anybody notices." Dean looks up at Bela. "We knock 'em out, go in quiet. Cas, once we're in, you stay close to the exit, out of sight. This is probably gonna go up in flames, so be ready to pull our asses out of the fire."

"How terribly poetic," Bela sighs. 

They make their way down the fire escape and through the alleyway under one of Castiel's heavy-handed disillusionments; they're practically on top of the guards when Castiel stops, holds a finger thoughtfully against his lips, and picks up a tin can from a trash pile. 

" _What the fuck_ ," Dean hisses at him in a whisper, but Castiel just breaks off, sprints away from them towards the end of the alleyway, and then rolls the can down the pavement. It clatters along and hits a couple of glass bottles and they go spinning, and the racket bounces off the side of the building. Castiel turns and vanishes behind a dumpster, out of sight. Dean starts after him but Bela grabs his arm and hauls him behind a pile of broken-down packing crates, and they watch from the shadows as the tallest guard gets up, wand drawn and face rigid. Dean holds his breath. Beside him, Bela is still and tense, wand out, one hand still around Dean's wrist. The tall guard strides away down the alley, and there's silence. Not a single sound. The two guards left behind give each other anxious looks, then get up and go to the edge of the corner, turning their backs on the pile of crates- and Dean and Bela. "Now," Dean whispers, and they stand together. It's less than a heartbeat before their curses hit; the guards go down without even having turned around first. Dean snakes an _immobilus_ around their ankles for good measure, and then he and Bela drag them over to the wall and prop them up with their arms folded across their chests. To a casual eye, it looks like they've just fallen asleep. Bela's working on the ward around the door when there's a sound from the corner; Dean whips around, wand up, and finds Castiel tipping the guard into the dumpster and closing the lid. "What the hell was that?" Dean says, keeping his voice low. "Your tin can trick?"

"We needed to split them up," Castiel says. He shrugs. "It worked."

"Yeah, well, maybe share your plans with the class sometime," Dean says. He pokes an index finger into Castiel's chest, and Castiel stares down at it. His attention comes slowly back up to Dean's face, eyes narrowed and dark, and Dean flushes. Okay, yeah, Dean's seen him naked, but Cas is still kind of frightening. "Just- don't do that." Castiel doesn't say anything to that; he walks past Dean and taps his wand against the opposite edge of the wards, starts unraveling a strand alongside Bela. It's the work of a couple of minutes before the door ward is down; Dean opens the door a crack and peers inside. There's empty shipping crates stacked in the middle of the floor and a broken-down old forklift beside them; beyond it, a maze of old machinery. Bela slips inside and ward-seeks for a second, finds a couple thin threads of old wards along the perimeter, and takes them apart easily. She nods at Dean and goes behind the packing crates, starts making her way along the outer edge. Dean's about to follow her when he feels a hand on his arm, Castiel drawing him back. They look at each other for a second and Castiel tightens his grip.

"I'll be close," he says, quietly, and lets go. There are a dozen things Dean wants to say, but none of them come out. So he just nods and slides away after Bela, moving as silently as he can through the dark.

 

 

.


	13. Chapter 13

Dean and Bela make their way across the factory floor, staying out of sight along the walls, casting for ward-lines as they go. They find a couple of old triggers- a faint fisher's snare set against the back of the loading dock, a couple of low-level jinxes- but nothing major. It's starting to make Dean nervous, the less they find. If this is really some kind of hideout, an operations center, then where the fuck's the firepower? He's seen better-warded bookstores. He says as much to Bela, when they stop for a second to hide behind another pile of sawdust-stuffed crates.

"I know what you mean," Bela says, softly. She glances over the top of the closest crate, scanning the hallway, and then slides back down, drawing her knees to her chest. "It feels like-"

"A trap."

"Yes," she sighs. "It certainly does." She looks at Dean. "You should go. Find Castiel and get out of here."

"I'm not just-"

"He's my brother," Bela says. "This isn't your responsibility. I shouldn't have asked."

"Well, you did," Dean says. "So here we are. And we're not going empty-handed." Bela stares at him; her face goes soft, almost surprised. "What, you think I'm gonna just drop you here, say goodnight?"

"No," Bela says. The corner of her mouth turns up. "I don't suppose you would."

"Come on, then," Dean says. 

There's an unlocked door and a metal staircase behind it, leading to the upper floor and the old offices. Dean holds the door open for Bela and she scans the staircase, finds some old trip-warding in a couple of spots and clears them out. There are cobwebs along the ceilings but disturbed dust on the steps, even fresh dirt scraped in a couple of places. Somebody's been here, recently. It's the first sign of life they've seen inside. They take the stairs under a silencing charm, moving as quick as they can. The upper door opens into a long hallway with doors on both sides. Dean nods left and Bela slides down the hall in that direction, putting her back to the wall and glancing into the first room.

"Clear," she whispers, and moves along. Dean takes the right side and finds an empty broom closet, then a secretary's office where the lamps have been ripped out of the walls; papers have been tossed out of filing cabinets, chairs knocked over and the legs broken off. But it looks like it's been that way for years. There's no sign of a recent struggle. Dean nods down the hall at Bela and moves on. There's a sudden sound, soft and scraping, ending in a high-pitched squeal, like furniture being pulled across the floor. Dean freezes; out of the corner of his eye, he sees Bela flatten herself to the far wall, behind a door frame. There's another noise, a couple of thuds. It's coming from the door at the end of the hallway; it's got newspaper over the glass in the door, but Dean can see light coming from between the cracks. He signals for Bela to take the opposite side, then presses his back to the wall and cranes his neck around to look through the papered-over window. There's a tiny gap, and Dean puts his right eye up to it. The room is lit by a couple of _lumos_ charms Dean can see circling the ceiling. Two hulking figures in robes are dragging a third across the floor- somebody hooded and tied to a chair. They stand the chair upright and the body slumps to one side, held up by the ropes. One of them pulls the hood off, and even through the tiny gap in the newspaper pages, Dean can see the dark, bedraggled hair and the murderous expression on the guy's skinny face. Dean motions to Bela.

"Severus," he whispers, and Bela's eyes widen. Dean points to the door and then holds up two fingers. Bela nods. When Dean kicks the door open, Bela's already hurtling through it, casting a chest-height hex that takes down both of the guys in robes. One of them, a little faster on his feet, tries to roll to one side and cast a curse that whistles past her, but Bela's quicker, lands a hit on him that sends him sprawling, unconscious. Dean clips the second one with a stunning spell and then kicks him in the ribs to take the wind out of him. Dean figures it can't hurt. The guy's eyes roll into the back of his head and he stays down. Dean shuts the door halfway for cover and stands guard beside it. Bela's already working on the ropes around Severus's arms and ribs, her wand tucked into her belt.

"I'm here, I've got you," she says, slitting the ropes with a thin dagger. She pulls them away from his body and his hands go to his wrists, rubbing there to get the circulation back. Dean watches down the hall- no sign of them being heard, at least not yet. Neither of the guards had a chance to cry out, or send out a warning flare. So far, so good. "Sev, you alright?" Bela says, touching her fingertips to her brother's face. Severus scowls and tries to protest and she pats his cheek a little harder. "No nonsense. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," he says. "Bela-"

"How many are there?" she asks. "How many guards? Just these two?" Severus looks at the bodies on the floor, and then back up at her, with a strange expression. He doesn't look at Dean at all. "What is it?" she asks. "Sev, talk." Severus stares up at her and his jaw trembles. "Severus?"

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't want-"

And an explosion rocks them, rocks the building so hard that Severus topples out of his chair and Dean tumbles against the open door. The windows of the office overlooking the factory floor blow inward, showering them with tiny fragments and splinters from the broken frames; Dean's a couple of seconds late on the shielding charm and gets a spray of glass to the left side of his face and shoulder. Dean's ears are ringing as he picks himself up, and he finds Bela in the dust and debris, helps her up with a hand under both arms. There's glass in her hair but she looks okay. Severus is in a pile on the floor, hands over his head. Dean grabs him by one arm and pulls him unceremoniously upright. Dean's trying to focus but his brain is going _Cas Cas Cas_ at him, because there's no way that explosion didn't catch him, too. He has to get a grip, he's got to know what the fuck is happening. Dean gives Severus a little shake to get his full attention.

"What was that?" Dean hisses. "What do you know?" Severus stares at him, narrow-eyed and dirty-faced, smeared with dust from the explosion.

"I don't have to tell yo-" Severus starts, and Bela reaches around between them and grabs Severus by the collar of his robe. She drags him out of Dean's grasp and twists the fabric in one hand, tight around his neck. With the other one she jabs her wand up underneath his throat, pushes the tip into the flesh under his chin.

"Bela," Dean interrupts, and she turns on him, wild-eyed. Dean puts his hands up. "Okay. Okay." She turns back to her brother, who's got one hand wrapped loosely around her arm, trying to push her gently off. Bela shakes him viciously, and he lets go.

"What did you do?" she shouts. " _What did you do_?"

"It's a trap," Severus says, shakily, swallowing hard against the wand pressing on his throat. "It's a trap, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Bela, I'm sorry, they made me, they'd have killed you-" he stammers, and she shoves him backwards into the wall. He hits it and slides downward, one hand pressed against his neck. "They would have killed you," he says, from the floor, staring up. His eyes are turning red at the edges. "I don't care about them," he says, and his eyes slide over to Dean for one guilty second, then dart away. He looks at Bela again, pleadingly. "They only want the Winchester. They won't hurt you. He promised me." Bela's face is ashen, tight with rage. She levels her wand at Severus and he doesn't look away, doesn't flinch. "Curse me if you want," Severus says. "I did it for you."

"You _shit_ ," Bela says. She lowers her wand and puts a hand over her face, makes a little sound like a sob. "You absolute fucking shit, Severus, you've damned us all."

"No," Severus argues; he slides himself up along the wall, now watching Dean warily. "No, he promised-"

"You made a deal with the devil, kid," Dean says. "That kind of promise means fuck-all." He points his wand at Severus in warning. "We die for this, I'll kill you."

"That doesn't-"

"Shut the fuck up," Dean says. He goes to Bela's side. "Come on. We have to go. We have to go right now. Castiel's down there. Okay?"

"Yes," Bela says. She straightens up, grips her wand, and points at her brother. "He goes first. Wards or not."

"Bela-" Severus starts, and she glares at him. "I haven't even got a wand," he protests.

"I don't care," she says. Severus glances between them, and then squares his bony shoulders and goes out the door. They follow him down the hallway, back down the stairs. The bottom quarter of the staircase is twisted, blown apart by the blast; Severus climbs down, Dean jumps and then catches Bela, and they make their way back towards the loading docks, towards Castiel. There are shouts in the distance now, the sound of running feet. They try to stay behind cover, even though it's hard to see more than a few yards at a time- the air's filled with smoke and sawdust. Dean can smell fire, feel heat coming from the section under the offices. They turn a corner and Dean feels a stunning spell slam into his left arm from behind, numbing it. He shouts and shoves Bela to the side, even as the spell takes hold of his left side, leaves him staggering against the wall. Bela curses and casts and there's the sound of a body hitting the floor, and another burst of explosions from somewhere far-off. Dean puts a hand around his limp arm and casts a revival, grits his teeth against the pins and needles and gets up. They run now, around the boxes and between the shelving units, the machinery. Severus is out front, a dark shape moving through the mess. And then suddenly as he passes between two giant machine belts, he's gone. There's a burst of fire in front of them, a curse missing its target; Bela runs forward past it before Dean can pull her back. He's alone in the clouds of smoke and debris, hands out in front of him to keep from falling over broken pieces of equipment, hunks of metal tossed by the explosion. Something hisses past him and Dean spins with a curse already on his lips. He casts and takes down another robed guy in a bone mask, steps over him and keeps going. Dean tries to find the wall again, tries to see a path to the back bays. And then there's a blue flare in the dark, spinning up bright and fierce like a firework.

" _Cas_!" Dean hollers, and grit goes down into his throat, sharp and painful, forcing tears out of his eyes. He runs towards the flare, slams into a bunch of busted crates, gets up and keeps going, weaving between the machines. There's a rush of cooler air from one of the opened loading bay doors, and Dean heads for it. And there's Castiel, finally, emerging bloody-faced through the smoke with a streak of soot or scorching across the back of his coat, parrying a curse from another freak in a bone mask. Dean runs forward and slashes his wand through the air, blows the guy backwards into the closest wall. Castiel turns and sees him; his face does something funny that Dean doesn't have time to think about. Castiel grabs his arm and pulls him behind the forklift, into cover. "I lost them," Dean pants. "Bela and the kid. He made some kind of deal, Cas, it's a trap-"

"I figured that out," Castiel says, flatly. Blood is running down from his temple, he probably got whacked in the head again, _Jesus_ , Dean is so fucking glad to see him.

"Cas," Dean says. He puts his hand up against Castiel's face, his thumb against the cheekbone there. "Cas, I'm sorry, I just-"

"Later," Castiel says. And then he turns and presses a kiss to the inside of Dean's scraped-up palm, so softly it barely connects. He crouches to stand. They go together to the wall, and Castiel clears the way for them by calling up a minor wind. Dean hears Bela crying out in anger from somewhere to the right, and a couple of crates blow up into the air.

"Bela!" Dean calls. Castiel puts up another flare and two more figures in bone masks emerge from the darkness. One of them makes for Dean and gets stunned backwards, but the other one's light on his feet, dodging Castiel's curses and tossing back a stunning spell that clips Castiel hard on his right side. He drops his wand and staggers backwards and Dean covers him, blasts back and misses. The robed figure turns and vanishes back into the smoke, behind a shelving unit, and Dean drags Castiel back behind some boxes. Castiel's already half-stunned and boneless, but Dean manages to charm him mostly awake, enough to tell him to stay put and to make a dive for Castiel's wand. He finds it on the floor somewhere, rolled under a bunch of broken boards, but when he comes up he's faced with Bela being dragged across the floor by two guards, two wands at her throat. She's struggling a little and there's a bright smear of blood under her nose, across her cheek. When she sees Dean, she tries to kick behind one of the guard's ankles; he twists her arm behind her back and forces her down to her knees. She stays there, breathing hard, looking at the floor. Dean has both wands up- his and Castiel's- and he hopes Castiel is still under cover, out of sight. One of the guards prods Bela with one foot, and she gives him a withering glare upwards.

"What ugly manners," she says. The guard presses his wand to her neck. "Sorry," she says, in Dean's direction. "Got a bit caught up."

"Drop the wands," one of the robed men says, to Dean. "Or we'll kill her."

"You'll kill us both," Dean says. "Get real."

"Drop the wands," the guard repeats.

"No," Dean says. He raises his own wand a fraction higher, aiming for the guy's heart. "You want to kill somebody? Take your shot. We'll see who's faster." The guard smirks and he shifts his stance, aims his wand at Dean, and there's a sharp crack that cuts through the air, a popping sound that repeats twice more. The guards both take an unsteady step backwards and then stand perfectly still for a second, staring dully down at their own chests, before they drop their wands and flop backwards with a sound of agony. Dean and Bela stare at each other, and then Dean turns slowly to look behind him.

"Looks like I'm faster," says Sam. He's still holding Bobby's ancient charmed Colt out in front of him, a thin trail of smoke coming off the end of the barrel.

"What," says Dean, "the _fuck_."

 

 

 

 

"We should split up," Sam says. He's got Castiel's arm slung over his shoulder: apparently the stunning spell touched a deep nerve when it hit, and it's still working itself through his system. Castiel's awake enough to grip a wand and hold his head up and shuffle along with his left foot, but Sam's mostly pulling him along through the alley while Dean takes point and waves them across streets towards the river. Behind them, Bela is dragging Severus by the arm. His other hand- broken in a fight- is clutched to the front of his chest. Dean looks at all of them- every one of them bloodied and battered except for Sam, who's not even a fucking wizard- and nods his head. They can move faster apart, and break up the trail. He turns to Bela.

"You have someplace to go?"

"Yes," she says. "Old family spot." Her eyes flicker to Severus. "Unless, of course, that's also been compromised."

"I didn't tell anyone about that," Severus says, quietly. "Not Spinner's End."

"Then we'll head there," she says. She looks at Dean, then Castiel and Sam. "I'm sorry. For all of this."

"Not your fault," Dean says. He shrugs. "This is all on your shitty brother." Bela's mouth quirks upwards, amused. "We'll deal with him later. Go on, get moving."

"We'll be in touch," she says, and drags Severus away, apparating with a swift crack.

"Well," Castiel says, from where his head is sagging down into his coat front, "I think we've found the mole." He raises his face to look blearily up at Sam. "And when did you get here?"

"More like _how_ ," Dean grumbles. "Okay, where's this stolen boat of yours?"

"Two blocks down, that way," Sam says, nodding in the direction of the river. They make their way between the buildings, ducking out of sight when muggle police cars rush by in the distance. The explosion was hardly subtle; Dean had to charm a couple of firemen rushing towards the building while they made their escape. But now they're ten blocks away, moving as fast as they can. Apparently, Sam used his emergency portkey to Heathrow about five minutes after Dean left, and then spent the rest of the evening taking the tube into the city and looking for the warehouse they'd traced on the map, then moving up the river on a stolen motorboat, docking on the south side just before the explosion hit. So all that stuff about staying put and staying safe, the joke about the dragon saddle, that was bogus, and Dean was dumb to believe it. _What a jerkoff_ , Dean thinks. He's not sure he means Sam or himself. 

"I knew we shouldn't have left that fucking map behind," Dean mutters to himself, as they wait behind a dumpster for some muggle emergency workers to pass by on the road. "I should have known you'd show up anyway and almost get yourself killed." In all honesty, though, Dean is mostly trying really really hard not to be incredibly fucking impressed with Sam's ingenuity. Not that he's ever going to say that out loud.

"Give me a break," Sam says. He pulls Castiel upright against him. "I saved your ass."

"Bobby give you that gun?" Dean asks. "Or did you steal that, too?" Even in the dark, he can see Sam's cheeks flush slightly pink.

"Bobby knows I took it," he says. "Unlike _some_ people, Bobby thinks I can handle myself."

"Hmph," says Dean.

"Blergh," says Castiel. "I smell a curse." Sam and Dean both look down at him. Castiel lifts his face unsteadily and inhales deeply through his nose. "Whew. Gross." His head sags slightly to the side. "Whatever it is, it's disgusting."

"How on earth-" Sam starts, and Dean cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

"Not important," Dean says, and cups Castiel's face in both hands, holds his head up and steady. Castiel smiles at him, dazed but brilliant, and Dean's heart flip-flops a tiny bit. "Cas," he says. "Can you tell where it's coming from? You getting anything else?"

"You," says Castiel. "You smell great."

"Um," says Dean. "Okay." He very much does not look at Sam's face. "Anything else about the curse?" Castiel sniffs the air again, and then frowns.

"Blood," he says. "Old blood. Like Caldey."

"Like Caldey Island?" Dean says. "Shit." His mind races, and connects. " _Shit_ , shit, shit. He's here. Fucking Azazel, he's here, he's close." Dean raises Castiel's chin. "Cas, can you apparate? Fuck, of course you can't." Dean glances around the alleyway. "I can take two," he says. He means it to sound confident and sure, but it kind of ends like a question. "I can take two," he says again, and looks at Sam. "You'll have to hang onto him and me."

"Dean, we're like fifty yards from the boat," Sam says. "It's just around the corner. We can make it."

"I can do it."

"You could splinch yourself," Sam hisses. "And I can't fix you." Dean's head whirls. He puts a hand to his forehead, tries to think.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. But we have got to _move_." Sam nods and shoulders Castiel, then pulls the Colt out of his belt. "Anything happens, you two just _go_. You don't wait. I'll buy you time."

"Dean-"

"For once, Sammy," Dean says, "I'm begging you, just do as I fucking say."

And they run.

 

 

.


	14. Chapter 14

They turn the corner and the boat is in view, bobbing gently right where Sam left it, nobody in sight along the dock. Dean feels a wave of relief come over him, thawing the terror in his chest a little bit. They make their way down towards the dock, climbing the gate- Castiel's finally got his other leg back, and he manages to heave himself over the barrier okay- and they've got their feet on the ramp down to the river when a curse hits Dean straight in the middle of his back and he goes down hard onto the platform. His head swims and his body doesn't obey him, his hands clench around nothing and his back spasms over and over. _Cruciatus_ , he knows. He's felt it before but never quite like this, never this bad. Holy shit. The world whites out around him for a second. He can feel footsteps thudding around him on the dock, the slight sway of the platform on its pontoon floats beneath him. Above him, somewhere, the Colt fires twice, then again. He crawls forward to try and find his wand. He has to get up. Sam. Cas. He's got to get up. Dean pushes himself upright and feels a booted foot connect with his gut. He gasps and rolls onto his back, and that same booted foot presses down on his throat. There's a bone mask above him, a wand pointed down. 

"Winchester," somebody says, behind the mask. A gloved hand slides the mask up; Dean doesn't recognize him, a man in late middle age with a stubbled jaw and bright, mad eyes. "What a pleasure."

" _Dolohov_!" Castiel shouts, from somewhere that seems far away. There's a jet of red light that flashes above Dean, the flare of a shield, a brief firefight that gets the boot off Dean's neck. Dean rolls away and finds his wand, but he's hit by another brutal _cruciatus_ as he tries to stand. He can hear an enraged shout from somewhere else, and then feels himself being pulled upright by the hair. Dean's eyes cross and then clear, and he's looking at Castiel sprawled out on the deck, coughing, clutching his stomach. There's a bright line of blood on the planks of the dock beneath him, more spilling out from between his fingers. Dean lurches forward and presses his hands over the open cut, tries to gather Castiel's slashed shirt in his hands to stop the bleeding.

"I owed you that," says a voice, above them. Dean looks up. It looks like John Winchester- sounds like him- but this time, Dean knows.

"Dean," Castiel gurgles, under Dean's hands. His fingers are scrabbling on the dock, looking for his wand. He pushes Dean away from him. "Go," he says, to Dean. "Run-"

" _Sectumsempra_ ," Azazel says, and a second gash opens across Castiel's chest, spraying out. Castiel chokes and Dean grabs his coat in handfuls and holds it over the wound. It starts to soak through. "A fine, effective spell," says Azazel. "I'm sure you remember."

"I'm the one you want," Dean yells at him. Castiel's slippery, bloodied hands are wrapping around his, trying to get him to let go, to flee. Dean doesn't know where Sam is, if he's alive and running, if he went into the water- doesn't know shit. This is the only card he's got left. Dean stares Azazel down. He puts Castiel's hands down onto the wounds and settles them there, tells him to keep pressing, then stands and opens his arms. "You want me? You can have me. I'll join you. Take me, let them go, I'll do anything you ask." Azazel's yellow eyes gleam in delight, but he doesn't answer. "What the fuck are you waiting for?" Dean demands.

"You were always my second choice," Azazel says. "I would have made do with you." He sweeps aside and now Dean can see Sam behind him, standing at the far end of the dock, eyes wide and pale white, obviously _imperio_ 'd within an inch of his life. "But him?" Azazel smiles broadly. "He's _perfect_." Dean stares at Sam in horror, and Sam stares straight past him. For a second, Dean is totally blank. And then Dean launches himself down the dock, bare hands reaching out in rage, screaming the start of a spell, and Sam vanishes- they all vanish in a burst, apparating in a split second, too fast for Dean to lock on and follow. He scrambles for his wand on the platform, finds it under a robed and masked corpse shot full of charmed bullets; he stands up and casts a tracing spell, tries to force the trail of their magic back open. He can do it, he can find them while it's still fresh and lingering. He manages to find a thread of their apparation path in the air- just the faintest thread, but enough for him to follow, enough if he leaves now, if he goes right this second- and then he glances backwards, down, at Castiel. Castiel still has two bloody hands fisted in his clothes, pressing against his chest and belly, trying to keep his guts inside. Castiel is looking up at him. He nods, once.

"Go," Castiel says, shakily. "Hurry."

Dean exhales.

"Christ," Dean says. He kneels down next to Castiel, and Castiel tries to use one hand to push him away. "Cas, come on, let me-"

"Go after them," Castiel hisses. "I'll- heal," he says, gasping in pain when Dean pulls the edges of his shirt and coat away from his cuts. Fresh blood gushes out, soaking down the back of Castiel's clothes. They're ugly wounds, striping across the width of him, split wide at the middle. If Castiel was- anything less than what he is, Dean thinks, he'd already be dead. "I'll heal, Dean," Castiel says, and wraps his hand around Dean's. "Sam," he says. He sounds miserable.

"I'm not leaving you like this," Dean says. "Fuck's sake. Stay still." He pushes the clothing back from the skin and runs his wand along the edges of the cuts, drawing them back together. The curse is vicious and it fights him along every inch, but Dean's steady and sure and he works him closed, knits the skin together until it's pink and raw and tender, but whole. Then he lets his hands rest over Castiel's belly, murmuring his own healing charm, until some of the tension goes out of Castiel's hands and they stop clenching in the fabric of Dean's jacket. When he's finished, Dean sits back on his heels, exhausted, drained and bruised and feeling the _cruciatus_ still tingling along his nerves. Castiel lies loosely on the dock, breathing in long, slow pulls of air. Dean touches the skin of his chest with the faintest pressure, over the heart, to test his handiwork. There'll be new scars. Dean should have been faster. Smarter. Shouldn't have let things fall apart like this. "Can you move?" Dean asks.

"We'll find him," Castiel says. He struggles to rise and Dean helps him up to his knees. He holds onto Dean's arm. "I promise you, I promise we'll find him."

"Yeah," Dean says. He feels numb, pins and needles again, all over. "Okay."

"I'm sorry," Castiel says. "You should have left me."

"Why the fuck," Dean says, and scrubs a hand across his own face. He feels shaky and empty, hurt like a kid hurts, like he's about to fucking cry. "Why would you say that? Why would I leave you, you think I'd," he says, and stops, and feels a bubble in his chest, hard and and swelling like a balloon, and he can't speak. He's a fucking failure, his little brother is gone, he's probably dead, Dean has ruined everything, he's not good for shit. Dean pulls Castiel's hands off of him and moves back, away, swaying a little bit. He rubs both hands over his eyes. He's not going to lose it, what a fucking mess he's made. "I don't just _leave_ people," Dean says, brokenly. He looks across at Castiel. He doesn't even know what he's saying. "I don't."

"I know," says Castiel. He holds his hand out and Dean hesitates for a second. He doesn't deserve it, but he wants it. Castiel sighs and Dean leans forward, lets Castiel pull him closer, comes in over him to rest his cheek against the top of Castiel's bowed head. Castiel's hand curls around the back of Dean's neck. "Thank you," Castiel whispers. Dean can't manage to say anything. So he kisses the side of Castiel's face- still bloody and dirty from the fight- and then stands up. He scans the dock for Castiel's wand, finds it and hands it over, and then sees the Colt lying on the edge of the platform. Sam- _Sam Sam Sam Sam_ , God, he's got to fix this- must have dropped it. Dean is leaning down to grab it when he sees a flicker of movement at the barrier above the dock. 

"Cas," Dean hisses. He raises his wand. But then there's a bright light on them both, a beam of wandlight and the tinny squeak of somebody turning on a _sonorus_. Dean shades his eyes with one hand and sees a couple of uniformed wizards milling around the top of the dock ramp.

" _Drop your wands_!" somebody says, high-pitched and officious-sounding. " _You are in the custody of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement_!" Dean and Castiel look at each other. " _Starting right this minute_!"

"Keep your panties on," Dean calls. He holds his hands up, then bends down to set his wand onto the dock. Beside him, Castiel does the same. "We're not resisting."

Aurors swarm onto the dock and put them both into cuffs. Dean tells them no less than fifteen times that Castiel's been wounded; when they ignore him and try to march Castiel up the dock too fast, one of the cuts on his chest splits a little and Dean goes ballistic, kicking two wizards into the river. They stun Dean stupid but call a healer for Castiel, and both of them get to ride in the back of a medical transport van instead of getting shuffled immediately to the cells. They get checked out and then split up, and Dean gets manhandled into an elevator, taken up to room twenty-three, and dumped into an uncomfortable chair in front of a face he actually recognizes.

"Dean," says Henriksen, from the other side of the desk. He steeples his fingers together. "Busy night?"

"You've got no fucking idea," Dean says.

 

 

 

Henriksen makes his assistant take Dean's charmed cuffs off, and then sends the guy- Tompkins, some sour-faced minor functionary in expensive robes- into the hall. He tells Dean to start from the beginning, and then listens to the whole story without asking too many questions. He interrupts when Dean explains about Sam- calls him _the boy who lived_ in a weird tone of voice, like Dean's got time for that kind of shit- but mostly he sits and watches Dean's face and makes notes with his quill into an official ministry notepad with a crest on the top. Dean is pretty honest about everything, except for some of the minor details that he doesn't think are auror business. And some shit is just personal. No auror has the right to know about him and Castiel- if they don't already from the scene on the dock- and there is no way on _earth_ Dean's going to open his dumb mouth and expose Cas as a werewolf right here in the belly of the Ministry For Being Inside Your Fucking Business. They'd have to torture him for that. 

"That's it," Dean says, finally. "That's everything."

"And you're sure you don't know where the Talbots were headed."

"I don't," Dean says. He heard a couple of words- spinner something- but he doesn't feel especially like oversharing right now. There's a knock on the door and Henriksen tells him to sit tight; the auror gets up and talks to somebody just outside in the hall for a couple of seconds, and Dean tunes it out. His back still aches from that fucking curse, his head is throbbing, and he feels like he cracked a toe kicking those aurors into the Thames. That last one is pretty low on his list of regrets. When Henriksen comes back into the room and sits across from Dean, his manner is changed somehow- he's a little more tense, and he circles Dean for a second before he sits back in his chair. "So, you've got it. All of it, now. Is there anything else?" Dean asks. "Of course I'd love to stick around and help your clowns find the demon wizard, but it's past my bedtime." Henriksen stares at him thoughtfully, then leans back in his chair.

"Mister Winchester," Henriksen starts. "Dean. What exactly do you think is happening here?"

"I'm giving you vital information about an imminent threat to the safety of the wizarding world, and you're writing it down to stick in a file folder," Dean says. The corner of Henriksen's mouth quirks upwards, and then turns back down just as quickly, like Dean struck some kind of nerve. 

"You've told me that your father is being used as a kind of- vessel," Henriksen says, shuffling pages. He finds one halfway through the stack and scans it briefly. "That Azazel is quote-unquote _possessing_ him somehow. And that you believe this is a result of your mother's curse tearing him from his own physical body." Henriksen sets the page aside. "You can probably imagine how this sounds on my side of the desk."

"It's the truth," Dean shrugs. "Sometimes the truth sounds like shit." This time, Henriksen's faint smile is less amused.

"Fair enough," he says. He leans forward and puts both hands on the desk. "So explain something to me, Dean. Tell me the truth. Make it clear to me how, if your father is Azazel's vessel, I can have your father's body in cold storage downstairs, right at this very minute." Dean stares at him. 

"What are you talking about?"

"The body of John Winchester was found less than forty minutes after you were taken into custody." Henriksen taps the desk. "Just off Knockturn Alley. Missing his wallet and wand. He'd been dead for no more than two hours. According to my aurors, there was no curse on the body, no traces of an _imperio_ -"

"I told you, it's not _imperio_ ," Dean cuts in. "It's old magic- his fucking eyes were yellow, it was talking out of my father's _face_!"

"You have nothing else to tell me?" Henriksen asks. "Nothing you've left out? Exaggerated, maybe?"

"Why the fuck would I make this up?" Dean hisses. "You know what Azazel did to my family. You _know_ that. _Everybody_ knows that. You've got to have five hundred fucking pages on it somewhere. And now I'm sitting here- I am sitting here and I am telling you, he's _back_ , he is gathering his followers to him, and if you don't listen to me, you are fucked, we are all _fucked_." He slams his hand on the desk. Henriksen doesn't flinch. "The last time I saw my father, he was getting worn like a party dress right on that fucking dock, right in front of me, _minutes_ before your guys showed up. And I will swear to it on any book you bring me. I don't know how he ended up in Knockturn- if that's even him you've got downstairs."

"They've run every imaginable test. No transformation charms, no glamours. As far as the Ministry is concerned, we've found John Winchester."

"Like last time?" Dean snaps. "You guys seemed pretty damn sure then, too."

"Here's what I've got," Henriksen says. "I've got five dead bodies tonight, including your father. I've got what looks increasingly like a _faked_ death- for what reason, I don't know- and I've got a warehouse fire eating up almost six square blocks. You know how many muggles we had to blank-slate?"

"Don't know," Dean says. "Don't care. Your team scanned me. You know there's a cruciatus still tickling my funnybone. We were attacked. Ambushed. You can sit here and interrogate me some more about shit I didn't do, or you can do your fucking job."

"Dean-"

"Are you charging me?" Dean asks. "You got something solid? Something you can prove? You gonna stand up in court and tell people I'm consorting with the demon wizard?"

"Disturbing the peace," Henriksen says, tightly. "Magical contact with muggles-"

"Fine me," Dean says. "There's a family vault at Gringott's. Mostly empty anyway, take whatever the fuck you want. Slap my wrist. I don't care if you believe my story, but you should believe this." Dean leans closer. "My brother is missing, and I am going to do whatever the fuck it takes to find him. Don't get in my way." They stare at each other over the desk for a minute or so, and then Henriksen shakes his head.

"I didn't bring you in here to start a fight," Henriksen says. "I'm truly trying to understand this."

"Okay," Dean says. "I've given you everything I know. That's all I can do." Henriksen sighs, and tilts his head back to contemplate the ceiling. 

"If I release you in good faith, Mister Winchester, should I expect any more corpses tonight?"

"No," Dean says. There's a beat. "Probably not." Henriksen makes a resigned face. "Definitely not."

"Tompkins!" Henriksen calls, and the auror from earlier pushes the door open. "Do you have Winchester's paperwork?" Tompkins holds out a folder with a brightly shimmering seal on the front- an active file, Dean realizes. Well, he's officially in the system now. Hooray. "Process it. This is an official caution. Take him downstairs and release him. And let the other one in now- I'd like to have a conversation before they leave."

"The other one?" Tompkins says. "He's already in holding." Henriksen frowns.

"I told you I wanted him across the hall."

"Yes, sir, but I thought-"

"You _thought_?" Henriksen snaps. Tompkin's narrow face goes beet red.

"He's a dark creature, sir. Werewolf. A class three. The wards picked it up when we brought him in," Tompkins adds, and Dean stands up, his hands already balled into fists. Tompkins shifts away a couple of extra inches, closer to the wall. "I- I sent him to the lower containment cells. All regulation, sir. We're meant to conduct a full-"

"Enough," Henriksen says, cutting him off. "Dean, sit down. Nothing you left out, huh?"

"It's none of your business," Dean says. He looks over at Tompkins. "None of yours either, you rat-faced fuck."

"Okay," Henriksen says. "We're done, Tompkins, go and get him."

"Sir-"

" _Now_ ," Henriksen booms, and Tompkins goes. "So. You weren't going to share that piece of information, were you."

"Not mine to share," Dean says. Henriksen studies him for a second. And then he leans back in his chair and rubs a hand across his brow. 

"I can't say it's not exciting, having you around, but please, get the fuck out of my office." 

"Gladly," Dean says, and heads for the door.

"Dean?" Henriksen says. Dean turns back, hand on the doorknob, one foot already in the hall. Henriksen's face is grim. "I will be watching you closely. But don't mistake my reasons. Your safety is not my problem. The safety of this world is. And if something's coming, I do not want to be the last to know. Next time you're planning a move like the one you made tonight, you come to me first. Otherwise, I _will_ lock you up. And I will think very hard about misplacing the key. Do we understand each other?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "I think we do."

Henriksen waves him out.

 

 

.


	15. Chapter 15

Dean waits in the hall outside Henriksen's office; after a while he shuts his eyes and tries to calm down, tries to unclench his shoulders and clear his thoughts. He rests his head against the stone wall behind him and tries to think about what comes next. He's got to get in touch with Bobby. Christ, he's got to tell Bobby he let Sam get taken. Okay. They've got to figure out the rest of the spell. It might be the only ammunition they have. And Castiel- he's got to get Cas someplace safe, get him checked out, who knows what the fuck those containment cells are like. Dean's been down to the basements where they keep dark objects in stasis. The level for dark cr- the level for people like Cas is _under_ that one. Fuck the fucking Ministry, fuck everything to hell. The elevator chimes at the end of the hall and Dean opens his eyes, sits up. It's Tompkins with Castiel in tow, finally. Dean stands up as they come closer. Castiel looks okay- his shirt and coat are still ripped up and covered in dried blood, but he's walking stick-straight as usual, like the pain's passed. He sees Dean and inclines his head a little; he doesn't smile, but his eyes look relieved, a little less wary. 

"Hey," Dean says. He gives a little wave. Castiel smiles, then, just a tiny bit. He lifts his hands up a fraction in greeting, and now Dean realizes Castiel's wrists are still chained together. "Hey, what the fuck," Dean says, to Tompkins, who flattens against the wall automatically. "Uncuff him."

"I can't," Tompkins says. He stares defiantly up at Dean, even though his entire body seems to be trying to escape backwards through solid rock. "He's a level three. Level three containment mandates-" he starts, and squeaks when Dean grabs him by the front of his robes. "Get your hands off me!"

"You like containment?" Dean says. "Wanna see how much of my foot I can cram up your-"

" _Dean_ ," Castiel says, in a growl, and the hairs on the back of Dean's neck stand up. Again. Frigging werewolf vocal cords or whatever. If they could bottle it, Dean would be screwed. More than he already is. Dean lets Tompkins go, and the smaller man slides back against the wall, bracing himself with both hands. Tompkins looks at Dean, and then at Castiel, like he's not sure who the fuck to be more frightened of. Castiel raises his hands between them, palms up and open, nonthreatening. Tompkins blinks. "It's been a long night," Castiel says, slowly. "And I don't think we want any more trouble, do we?"

"N-no," Tompkins says. Castiel looks at Dean.

"No," Dean says. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and sits down on the bench, scowling. "I'm good." Tompkins stays frozen against the wall for a second, and then seems to shake himself loose. He stands up and knocks on Henriksen's frosted-pane window, then ushers Castiel inside and closes the door after him. He stands in the hallway opposite Dean, watching him the way people watch live snakes. Dean looks at the floor. He tries to hear what's being said inside the office, but it's no use. Almost every room in the Ministry's charmed for silence. Bunch of paranoid bureaucratic fu-

"It's nothing personal," Tompkins says, suddenly. "I've got nothing specific against um, people of his, er, condition." Dean stares up at him and Tompkins fidgets, fumbling with the keys in his left hand. "Rules are rules," he adds, stiffly, and then falls silent. Dean shakes his head.

"Right," he says. "Sure."

_Fuck this place to the foundations_ , Dean thinks.

After a couple of minutes, Castiel comes out of the door, wrists uncuffed and face drawn and unsmiling. Henriksen walks him out, nodding at Dean before they leave for the elevator. They ride in silence with Tompkins down to the main floor, where he stamps their paperwork and sends them through the warded gateway that leads to the great hall. In the great hall the handful of people coming late out of their offices stare at them- at their messed-up clothes and dusty faces and the blood that seems to be _everywhere_ on Castiel- and walk sideways in both directions to avoid them. Dean ignores them. Castiel pulls his coat tighter around himself, trying to hide the gaps in his shirt. They're first in line for the floo and then they're out on the street at last, breathing the cold night air and listening to the sound of car horns and tinny music being piped out of trendy restaurants. They walk a couple of blocks towards the closest park, and apparate out of the city from behind a hedge. They flit back and a forth a couple of times to shake anyone who might be tailing them- the Ministry's riddled with that kind of invasive spy shit- but they're both too tired to make a big deal out of it. They land outside Hogsmeade on the last jump, and walk the rest of the way. It's close to midnight and pitch-black everywhere they look, except for up: the night is clear and the stars are out in fair, fine-grained clouds. There's a stiff wind coming down off the hills that cuts across them as they go. It stings the skin on Dean's face and chills his fingers to the bone, and when he turns to glance at Castiel, he sees him shivering only slightly in his ragged coat, holding himself rigid, like he's trying not to look the way Dean feels: like a miserable, tired-out sack of potatoes. Dean stops him and holds his hands out. "Come here," he says, and Castiel puts his own hands into Dean's. " _Esto gynnes_ ," Dean says, quietly, holding their joined hands to his lips. And warmth pools between them, under the skin. Castiel murmurs his thanks.

When they get back to the cottage they spend ten minutes putting up new, serious wards around the place- Dean even thinks he sees Castiel pricking the point of his own finger to lay a blood ward across the doors, but he doesn't ask. It's Castiel's house, however shitty, and that entitles him to use whatever he wants to defend it. Dean thinks seriously about food, about making coffee to stay awake and form war plans, but after trying to light the stove twice and failing, the most he can manage is to shove half a sleeve of crackers into his mouth and down a third of a glass of cheap whiskey and then trudge upstairs and fall into bed. He gets up one more time to pull his jeans and socks off, and then slides under the blankets and pulls them over his aching head. He's already half-asleep when he feels Castiel crawl in beside him. "Oh, hey," Dean says, and sits up. He holds himself upright on his forearms. "Your cuts," he says, rubbing the sleep out of his face. "You good? Lemme take a look."

"I'm fine," Castiel says. He's changed and cleaned his face, he smells like soap and his skin is warm and pink and still a little damp. He's wearing one of Dean's undershirts. "Go to sleep."

"Please," Dean says. Castiel sighs and rolls his shirt up. Dean kneels above him and looks at the healing pink skin of his belly and chest, the flesh solidly knit together and the lines already starting to fade. He can't help but smooth his fingertips along the vanishing seams: hesitantly, adoringly. Dean doesn't care what anybody else thinks- werewolf magic or not, whatever- because Dean thinks Castiel's body is a fucking miracle. He leans down and kisses Castiel's bare skin and underneath him, Castiel sighs and closes his eyes and shifts his hips. Dean rolls his shirt down for him, and then curls into his side, lets Castiel wrap his arms around him. "You're okay?" he says. He doesn't care how fucking stupid he sounds, how needy. There was so much blood, _Jesus_ , he was so close tonight to losing absolutely everything. However you look at it, Dean's sky is falling. He doesn't know what he's going to do. Castiel rubs his nose into the top of Dean's head.

"Sleep," he says.

Dean's already there.

 

 

 

When Dean was a kid he taught Sam every spell he knew. He brought his books and scrolls home and together they'd pour over chapters and charts, scribbling notes into dog-eared composition books. Every lesson, every week, they'd sit out in the back yard or wander between the dry-docked boats and Dean would make Sam practice the words, the intonations, the hand movements, with a wand Dean whittled for him out of a maple tree. When he dreams he can still hear the spells in Sam's stumbling little-kid Latin; he can still see the fierce look on his face as he charged invisible enemies, dueled imaginary dark wizards, for hours before lunch and after dinner. Bobby pretended like he didn't know: Dean was breaking the rules, technically, teaching a squib to wave a wand. But like Dean, Bobby just hadn't seen the harm in it. He'd even given them both a matching _Monster Book of Monsters_ for Christmas one year. Sam made friends with the ravens and Dean sent him charmed letters for his birthday, at Halloween, at the start of summer vacation. They'd catch fireflies together: Sam's _lumos_ was a jam-jar of them swung from the end of a branch, a clumsy mirror-image of the real _lumos_ Dean would cast for his amusement. For years Sam learned everything Dean did. It hardly seemed to matter that the words in his mouth did nothing, when in Dean's they could charm leaves into strange colors, frogs back into tadpoles, hot tea to ice. But something changed, slowly. And one day Sam didn't want to play magic anymore.

Dean dreams about him, now: half-grown Sam with his blunt bangs falling over his eyes, refusing to take the useless wand Dean held out to him, staring down at the book in his lap without turning the pages. Dean had asked him why. And Sam had looked up with tired, haunted eyes and said,

"It's pointless."

"It's not," Dean had insisted. "You oughta know this stuff." And Sam had laughed at him.

"Why?" He was almost as tall as Dean then, and when he stood up, they were nearly eye-to-eye. His baby brother. "I'm a stupid squib."

"Don't say that-"

"I'm a squib, Dean!" Sam had shouted at him. "I'm not like you, I'm never gonna be like you! It's just pretend for me, it's useless, I hate it!"

"You hate it?"

"I don't hate _you_ ," Sam had added, apologetically, losing a little steam. "I just hate- I hate this. I'm never gonna be a wizard, I'm never gonna be-" Sam had held his empty hands apart. "Anything. I'm never gonna be like you or dad or Bobby." He'd sighed and scuffed his feet and then looked up and caught Dean with his eyes, with the serious set of his face. "You can't fix me, Dean."

_You can't fix anything_.

Dean wakes up and stares at the ceiling for a while, turning that over and over until the dream fades from his mind, until he's just lying there repeating the last words to himself, hands over his face. Sam never said that to him- he knows somewhere deep in his heart that Sam would never ever say _you can't fix anything_ \- but that's what he heard, that's what he knows. He couldn't make Sam magic, he couldn't protect him, he couldn't save his dad, he can't even remember all the words to his mother's old songs anymore. He fails everybody he loves.

"Dean?" Castiel says, beside him. He rolls onto his side and Castiel stares at him, fuzzy-eyed, blankets pulled up around his face. "Are you alright?"

Dean is silent, and Castiel waits.

"No," Dean admits.

Castiel peels the blankets away from him and pulls them over both of their shoulders; he reaches for Dean and pulls him closer again, until Dean is flush against him with Castiel's leg thrown over his, ankle hooked behind his calf. Castiel kisses the side of his face and rubs his back slowly with one strong hand. And Dean feels like a fucking idiot, but he can't believe how good it feels, to be held everywhere, to be anchored to the world by this body, to have Castiel's cheek against his temple and his arm slung around his waist. To be held down here so that he can't drift away, to be touched and known, to exist here for somebody else and to be wanted. He doesn't know why anybody would want him, but Castiel does. It's a mystery of the fucking universe and Dean will take it, please and thank-you. He breathes hot air from the space between their bodies and tries to let himself relax, but he can't quite. He feels jumpy again, prickly in his skin. Everything's wrong but this feel right, it's the only thing in the world that does. Dean shifts forward and bumps his thigh between Castiel's legs, rolls his hips a fraction. Castiel inhales a little too sharply but he doesn't pull away; he lets Dean tug him down and press kisses along the slope of his throat.

"You," Castiel murmurs. "You want this?"

"Want you," Dean says. Castiel makes a soft, incoherent sound and opens his mouth to Dean's, slides his hands under Dean's shirt and up along his ribs. Their hips nudge together and Dean can feel Castiel getting hard against him; Castiel's thigh slides up to wrap around Dean's waist and then they're pressed tight together, long and hot and perfect, Dean's cock lined up with Castiel's under their clothes. It's slow and good and Castiel rocks against him hard and his fingers clutch at the muscles of Dean's back under his shirt. Dean kisses him and sucks on his collarbone and swears breathlessly when Castiel gets him just right. Dean's so hard he fucking aches and the front of his shorts are wet and every time Castiel's dick slides against his the world disappears for a second; finally Castiel groans and spills between them, soaking through, and Dean holds him through it, licks his open mouth and ruts up against him and comes in his pants like a kid, twitching and raw. They lie there like that for a little bit, breathing from the same warm pocket of air, and then Dean gets up and peels them out of their clothes and cleans them off a little and then they curl together again, naked and wrung-out and asleep in minutes with Dean's nose tucked into the curve of Castiel's spine.

Dean doesn't remember if he dreams, this time.

 

 

 

In the morning he's up before Castiel, making tea one-handed while he reads through the journals again in a rush, looking for anything he missed. Sam's research is still spread out over one of the tray-tables, with a couple of bookmarks scattered here and there. Dean flips through them and then leaves them carefully marked again, so that Castiel can take a second look. But when Castiel comes downstairs he just looks at the piles and turns on his heel and goes to the bookshelves, and then after half an hour of searching he disappears into the attic. Dean goes through everything again in a whirlwind; when he's just about to tear his hair out in frustration he goes looking for Castiel. He finds him still up in the attic, covered in dust, kneeling over a open trunk filled with battered paperbacks and magazines.

"What are you looking for?" Dean asks. "Sam's stuff is downstairs."

"Farmer's almanacs," Castiel says, without turning around. "And calendars." He holds one up over his shoulder, and goes back to flipping through the pages.

"You think maybe the garden could wait?" Dean snaps. He's trying not to sound like a huge impatient jerk, but what the fuck. They don't need a fucking seed catalogue, they need a fucking _lead_. The clock is ticking. Castiel looks over his shoulder at Dean, eyes narrowed, and then he stands up. He holds out a calendar page. There's faint handwriting in pencil on some of the days, but that's not what catches Dean's attention. There are little dots in every box of the calendar, inked-in circles with varying degrees of light and dark. 

"November, nineteen eighty-three," Castiel says. "The night your mother died- the night she worked her spell- was a waning crescent moon."

"So?"

"Tomorrow night," he says. "The same exact phase. If there's a chance of duplicating what she did, of finishing it, that's our best shot." Castiel flips the calendar shut and sets it back into the trunk, then closes the lid. "Her spell was elemental. Wood and water. The moon can affect those things. The waning moon's a time for banishing evil."

"Okay," Dean says. "Okay." He paces back and forth a little, kicking up more dust. "That's something. But that means we have to find them before that. We have to get Azazel where we want him." He pauses. "Where do we want him?"

"Ideally, a place of power. Your mother's spell would have taken planning. It's possible she had a site in mind before she was- forced to improvise."

"Right," Dean says. And then: "The yew tree. That's got to be it. We find the tree, we find the place." Castiel nods and makes for the stairs, and Dean follows him eagerly; but at the top of the ladder he stops for a second and glances back around the attic. There's a couple of old-fashioned trunks and packing boxes and nothing else, except for some broken chairs and a stuffed ferret missing its eyes. He turns back to Castiel, already standing on the floor of the hallway below. "How'd you know the calendars were up here?" Dean asks.

"They're mine," Castiel says. 

"You were already keeping a moon calendar when you were, what," Dean wonders aloud, "six?" He comes down the ladder. Castiel watches him.

"I'm older than you," he says. He folds up the ladder to the attic and pushes it upwards until the panel clicks into place above their heads. "I turned nine in February, the same year your brother was born. I was bitten in March."

"Oh," says Dean. He doesn't move. They stand staring at each other for a second in the narrow upstairs hallway, and then Castiel sighs. 

"Go ahead," Castiel says.

"What?"

"Ask it," Castiel says. "Whatever it is you want to ask."

"I don't-"

"It's fine," Castiel says. "Ask." Dean stares at him and tries to pretend like he doesn't know what Castiel's talking about. And finally he just squares his shoulders and says,

"What's level three?"

Castiel's face doesn't register anything: his mouth doesn't twitch and he doesn't flinch or shudder, but Dean's not fooled. His eyes go dull- they flick for a second upwards, and then back down, flat and even and only a little cold. He's obviously not surprised by the question. He's probably been waiting for it.

"A level one dark creature presents a danger only to themselves," he says, like he's reading out of a manual. He probably is. Dean doesn't know what kind of shit they made him go through when he was a kid, what forms and processing orders or what the fuck ever. Castiel turns and goes down the hallway, towards the stairs, and Dean follows him. They go down together into the living room, through the hall and into the kitchen. Castiel keeps talking. "Level two presents a potential danger to others. Level three," he says, with only the slightest pause, "means that the one time I wasn't careful, I killed someone." Castiel leans back against the kitchen counter, and his hand finds the edge. He looks at the floor. He stands there stiffly, defensively, like he expects Dean to shout at him.

"I've killed people," Dean says, after a minute. Castiel's eyes dart up to his face, surprised, and then back down again. He makes a bitter little smile.

"People who were trying to kill you?"

"Yeah."

"Not exactly the same," Castiel says.

"Who was it?" Dean asks, and then holds a hand up. "Sorry. I already asked my question. You don't have to answer that if you don't want to."

"It's alright," Castiel says. "You should know. I should have told you when I met you, how dangerous I am. I haven't been fair to you."

"Don't do that," Dean says. "Forget it. Forget I asked, it's not important to me."

"You say that," Castiel says, "because you haven't thought about it. You're trying not to think about it, but you should. I look like a man most of the time. But I'm not."

"Cas-"

"I killed the person I loved most in the world," he cuts in, and Dean stops talking. Castiel looks at him evenly, straight in the eyes. It's brutal. "The only person I ever loved, befo-" he says, and catches himself. Dean's heart pounds. He can't look at Castiel's face; instead he looks down at his hands, gripping the edge of the cabinet. "My own mother. The only person who protected me, who ever helped me. That's how I repaid her. I killed the only person who ever loved me."

Dean doesn't know what to say. That's not a huge surprise to him, running out of words at the wrong moment. This kind of thing is too huge for _I'm sorry_ or _how terrible_ or _it was an accident_. Christ. People said a lot of things to Dean after his mother died; people are always saying things that don't help, things they don't mean. So Dean doesn't say anything. Instead he comes closer and puts a hand on the back of Castiel's neck, rubs the fine hairs on his scalp with the pad of his thumb. Castiel stares at him blankly, like he's lost his fucking mind. And finally Dean thinks he might have an inkling of what to say, a tiny lightbulb of inspiration. It feels almost like hope. They're going to win, they're going to save Sam and they're going to live, they have to, because Dean is going to do this right for once, Dean is going to fix something. Dean is going to save his brother and then he's going to fix this house and fix the garden outside and right now before all that happens Dean is going to tell the fucking truth to the person right in front of him. 

"The first," Dean says. "But not the only."

He takes Castiel's face in his hands and kisses him and Castiel turns his cheek against Dean's palm and shuts his eyes and breathes like he's been holding it in, and for a minute, nobody says anything else. And then Dean smiles into his beautiful fucking face and says, "You with me?" Castiel blinks. "We gonna kick some demon wizard ass?" 

Castiel's eyes narrow.

"Yes," he says. "We are."

 

 

 

.


	16. Chapter 16

"I know why he wanted Sam," Dean says.

Castiel looks up from his spot on the floor; he's got maps and guides scattered around him, books in half a dozen languages and stained grimoires. He's keeping his pages open with rocks from the garden and there's a pencil stuck behind his ear. He blinks.

"Blood of the mortal enemy," he says, after a minute. "Your mother." Dean nods.

"My dad didn't have what he needed. Probably just a way to get close to one of us."

"It's her bloodline Azazel was after," Castiel says, thoughtfully. "A Campbell's blood." He makes an uncomfortable face. "So we have to assume that night, when they found the body-"

"Yep," Dean says. He wads up the page he's been scribbling on, and hurls it into the fire. "Son of a bitch traded up to a newer model." Thinking about it makes him sick. And of course he can't really stop thinking about it. There's a crackling noise as the paper he tossed takes light, and then a little shower of sparks goes up and a sputtering cough follows it. Dean gets out of his chair and kneels on the carpet in front of the grate. "Bobby?" he calls. There's more coughing, and a sneeze. "Bobby, hey. You back home? You get the stuff?"

"A _summons_?" Bobby hollers, without preamble. "You _summoned_ me? Every raven in a hundred miles is tapping on my goddamn windows, Dean, I only asked for a couple hours of shut-eye before we start your little apocalypse!"

"Well, next time I call you, answer your fucking fireplace."

"You ain't the boss of me," Bobby growls. "I got what you asked for. Where am I sending it?"

"You're not sending it," Dean says. "You're bringing it."

 

 

 

Bobby gets in after dark; he apparates to an isolated spot outside of Hogsmeade and Dean and Castiel are already waiting for him. They trudge back to the house and the first thing Bobby does is complain about the broken front gate and the way they haven't laid a devil's trap under the paving stones. 

"We've only been here a couple of weeks," Dean argues. "I'd have gotten around to it!" Bobby grumbles and goes inside and Castiel leans close to Dean as he passes, smiling a little to himself. "Something funny?"

"I've lived here for a year and a half," Castiel says.

"What?" Dean says. He stares after him, affronted. "What the hell was stopping you, then? A good devil's trap is like, the third thing you do." 

Dean puts together a cold supper on a board from the scraps left in the cabinets- dried sausages and cheese and pickles and the last of the crackers- and they sit around a table in the living room going over what they've got so far. It's more than Dean hoped. And that's thanks to Sam. "He figured it out," Dean says, spreading out one of the maps. "Right here. Llanafan Fawr." He taps the paper, where Sam had left behind a faint circle in pencil, right around the tiny name of the village. It had taken Dean three tries to find anything in Sam's notes, in the stuff he'd abandoned running after them. Thank God for his brother's serious research skills. "There's a church there, been around since the seventh century in one form or another. Guidebook says it's got Saint Afan's grave, and some kind of famous murdered guy."

"We're not looking for a church," Bobby says. "We're looking for a tree."

"Church's got one," Dean says. "Two thousand years old, growing right alongside the graves. And that's not even the best part." Dean slides his pencil across the map a few inches and makes a mark. "Look at that."

"Lampeter?" Castiel reads. "Is that significant?"

"Llanbedr Pont Steffan," Dean says. "That's what she called it."

"That's-"

"That's where we lived," Dean says. He taps it again. "Our house was just outside of town. Right there. That's- I was born here," he says. "And Sam. And that's where she died. Right fucking there, less than an hour away from that church and that yew tree. She told me all those stories of the old saints- she knew every one by heart. Afan was the same blood as Saint David. He was a bishop," Dean says; he scrambles to find his page in another book, and holds it up triumphantly. "His feast is in November. Same month that she died. Azazel knew she was planning something, he knew it and he struck first. This is the place," he says. "I _know_ it."

"Okay," Castiel says. He takes the book from Dean and scans the page. "We have the water from the Holywell. We've found the yew. But we still don't have the wheel."

"I don't know," Dean says. He slumps backwards into his chair. "There's a circular mound at the church, close to the tree. Pretty ancient. That could be it, I guess."

"Your mama had a spinning wheel," Bobby says, thoughtfully. "I remember that. Sitting in the corner of that old cottage."

"Spinning wheel," Dean says. He stands up. "Holy crap, Bobby, that's- that's something. I know that's something. Spinning wheel," he repeats. There's something he's not connecting to, something he's just short of. "Fuck, I know this."

"We have the place," Castiel says. "It's progress."

"It's nothing without the last piece," Dean snaps. He scrubs the top of his head with both hands, wrecks his hair, walks a circle in front of the dying fire. "I fucking know this, I know it, I'm so close to it. Spinning wheel. Wheel. Wheels turning, turning circles." He kicks over a shabby ottoman, and it goes flying across the room. "Fuck!" He shuts his eyes and then turns around, looks at Castiel, who is sitting silent and unsmiling in his chair. Castiel's eyes slide up to Dean's, narrowed and grim. "Sorry," Dean says. He picks the stupid ancient ottoman up and sets it back in place. "Sorry, I'm just royally- _Arianrhod_ ," he hisses suddenly, and flies to the bookshelf. Castiel and Bobby look at each other, and then Castiel shrugs and follows Dean and starts flipping through the books alphabetically, looking for entries on A. " _Arianrhod_!" Dean says again, tossing books behind him. He finds the right one and and starts leafing through it. He finds what he's looking for and thrusts the book into Castiel's hands. Castiel's eyes go wide.

"Gwydion's sister-"

"She's got to be it."

"You gonna elaborate?" Bobby asks. "What about her?"

"The goddess of the silver wheel," Dean says, "literally. _Arianrhod_ , silver wheel. And not just a goddess, a witch. Ridiculously powerful."

"Something associated with her. Silver jewelry?" Castiel suggests. "Silver chains? A crown?"

"I don't know," Dean says. "Maybe. Feels a little too easy."

"Well," Bobby sighs. "God forbid it ever be _easy_."

Castiel goes to work in his archives, pulling out everything he can find on crowns and circlets and silver bracelets, any charmed necklace he can remember. He chews on the end of his pencil and reads page after page while Dean and Bobby go through the duffel bags Bobby brought from Salem. Dean sorts through the hex bags and dried weeds and a bunch of blessed iron spikes, and finds Castiel watching him.

"What's all that?"

"Stuff for traps," Dean says. He pulls out a spool of gold thread. "Spent years unraveling other people's old curses. Time I set a few of my own." Dean digs to the bottom of the bag and comes up with a long leather sleeve at the bottom of the duffel. Whatever's in it is heavy and wrapped in strips of canvas. "What's this?" Dean asks. "It's not an iron sword, is it? Thought you said you couldn't find one of those in-" he says, and trails off when he unwraps the end of the bag. " _Bobby_."

"Don't get your tailfeathers up," Bobby says, taking it out of his hands. "Just thought I could do a little better than that. Thought _you_ could do with something better, too." He slides the rest of the wrappings off and drops the leather bag and- there it is. Dean asked him for an old relic, something out of a Viking grave maybe, crumbling into bits. Something they could make a curse with: for all the new potions and powders the markets come out with year after year, bone and blood and old iron still work best. But this- this isn't an archaeological curiosity. Dean can't see the blade itself, except for a bright sliver between a crack in the blackened, worn-looking scabbard. The hilt is shining and flawless. It's a simple sword with a plain cross-guard; there's a cloudy pale stone, the color of fresh snow, set into the pommel. The rock shimmers when Bobby holds it up to the light. Dean would bet anything- his empty vault, the clothes on his back- that whatever's in that scabbard is sleek and viper-deadly, probably still sharp enough to slice a moth in flight. Bobby holds it out to him. He doesn't draw it, just looks at Dean expectantly. And just like that, another idea trickles into Dean's head. It's a weird one, but there's a lot of old swords in the world, lot of legends. Suddenly he wonders if Bobby didn't actually bring him-

"Jesus _Christ_ ," Dean says.

"It ain't his," Bobby says. "Don't think he was much of a sword guy."

"Bobby," Dean says. "What the fuck is this?"

"You read your _Mabinogion_ , boy, what do you think it is?"

"No," Dean says. His hands were extended to touch the hilt, but now they curl into fists. "Can't be." He shakes his head. "Even if it is the White-Hilt, it's- it's no use to me. Maybe to you, or Cas," he says, and clears his throat. "Cas could try it. Worth a shot."

"No offense, but I didn't bring this for your friend, and I sure as hell didn't bring it for my old ass," Bobby says. "Brought it for you."

"Your mistake," Dean snaps. 

"We're going after Sam with everything we got," Bobby says, angrily. "I brought this because you need it- a heavy hitter like this, it's better than a fisher's snare-"

"I can't draw it," Dean shouts. "What fucking good is a sword I can't draw?" Bobby stares at him. For once, he doesn't seem to have a damn thing to say. "Forget it," he says. "Just forget it. I'm- I'm gonna grab some air," he says, and turns on his heel for the door. It's too fucking hot in there with the fire going, anyway.

Dean goes out through the kitchen and closes the back door quietly. He picks his way through the old garden and stands with his hands in his pockets; after a while of staring out into nothing, he tilts his head back to watch the stars. There are wisps of cloud streaking the sky, blurring things far above. But a few stars are still out clearly, bright strong points of pale fire. The last time he stood here like this, Sam was at his elbow, probably already planning his fucking escape. Dean should have known that, should have read him better. He was too busy playing the big man, the big brother, bossing Sam around and trying to keep him cooped up like a fucking kid. If they'd had a better plan, if he'd just taken two seconds and thought about it- _fuck_ , forget it. Maybe this was always gonna happen. Maybe no matter what Dean does, or tries to do, he's going to fuck it up, he's going to be here at the edge, scraping his knuckles raw just trying to hold on. _Sam_ , he thinks. I'm coming. 

"Sulking don't suit you," Bobby says, from behind him. Old bastard's pretty quiet when he wants to be. He comes up next to Dean and stands there for a second, huffing cold breath upwards. "Your daddy was the moody one. Never found a pretty piece of nature he couldn't stand in front of, frowning, lookin' like a miserable sack of shit." Dean doesn't want to talk, he sure doesn't want to smile, but he feels the corners of his mouth rising up a little, just enough that he needs to hunker down into his coat collar and hide it. Bobby turns towards him. "Not you, though. You were a good kid. Always trying to find the best in things, telling Sam it was gonna be okay, things were gonna look up, stuff was gonna change."

"I was a dummy."

"You were a wonder," Bobby says, and Dean's head swivels. "Don't look at me like that. I got a heart. You think there's only liquor and cigarette butts in here?"

"Bobby-"

"Shut up and let me say my piece," Bobby grumbles. "I'm trying to tell you something, Dean, and I know you don't want to hear it right now. But maybe someday you will." He sighs. "Everything ain't your damn fault all the time."

"Okay," Dean says. "Sure. I didn't let my brother get bodysnatched. Thanks. That's a load off."

"He's a man," Bobby snaps. "He's a grown man, and he's gonna do what he's gonna do. I know you love him," he says, and Dean starts to shake his head and deflect, and Bobby grabs him by the arm. Looks him straight in the eye. "You love that kid more than yourself, anybody could see it," Bobby says. Dean's eyes feel hot, burning, like he's looking into a flashlight. Bobby hangs onto his sleeve, tight. "But he ain't a kid anymore. He grew up. And so did you. Part of growing up is being responsible for your own shit. Another part is letting go."

"Letting go?" Dean repeats. "I can't let him _go_ , Bobby, he's-"

"I'm not talking about saving his ass from the goddamn demon wizard, we're gonna do that or die trying," Bobby says. "I'm talking about the guilt, Dean. The bag of trash you carry around on your back from one place to another. The things your daddy handed you when he stopped _being_ a dad and started being," Bobby shrugs, "some kinda crusader. Your father was a good man, once upon a time. But that life messed you up. I tried to do what I could, but what the hell did I know about raising kids?"

"You knew enough," Dean says. He can't seem to get his voice above a whisper.

"Not quite," Bobby says. "You can't wreck yourself over this. Over every damn thing somebody else does. Love ain't supposed to be a boat anchor." He lets Dean go, but pats his sleeve awkwardly. Then puts his hands back into his pockets. "Karen didn't leave me much, but she did leave me that." 

"Bobby," Dean says. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Bobby says. "Got nothing to be sorry for." For a minute or so, they don't say anything. Dean feels cold inside his coat, raw like a nerve. Bobby shifts from foot to foot. "Cold as hell out here," he says, finally. "I'm goin' in." He stomps off through the garden and turns over his shoulder to look at Dean from the open door. "You coming or what?" 

So Dean follows him.

 

 

 

The sword is still resting on a table in the living room where Bobby left it. Castiel's sitting on a chair beside it, reading a page in the _Mabinogion_ , when Dean comes in. He looks up at Dean and then his eyes flicker down, to rest on the sword for a moment. When they meet Dean's eyes again, there's a question in them. Almost a challenge. Okay. So apparently he's figured out exactly what Dean's so fucking afraid of. Dean circles the table, looks at the cracked scabbard and the spotless hilt, the stone that seems to glow from the core of itself, bright and pure and clean. Dean looks down at his own hands: stained with ink, fingernails cracked, little cuts healing on the backs of his knuckles. Castiel is still watching him when he glances back, waiting. Dean knows that Bobby is hovering somewhere behind him, standing in the doorway that leads to the kitchen. Everything seems strangely still.

"Whatever you're thinking-"

"I think," Castiel says, evenly, "you should draw it."

"Cas-"

"I think you should try," Castiel says.

Dean's hand goes out without him really thinking about it; runs along the edge of the scabbard and up along the hilt, where the metal's wrapped in thick leather. It's soft against his fingertips, worn smooth, even slightly warm. His hand doesn't rest on the stone, not even daring to land the slightest touch on it. But he lets his hand curl around the hilt. The grip is solid, perfect. Dean's other hand grips the scabbard. He hopes, irrationally, that this isn't the real sword. That Bobby is somehow wrong. But that's not very fucking likely. If he's right about the sword but wrong about this, if they're all wrong about _Dean_ , he's fucked. He is so very fucked. It's not really the threat of fire that scares him. It's the knowing. If he's not worthy, if the sword rejects him, they're gonna see it- they're gonna have to put Dean out and heal what's left of him, and he's going to have to live the rest of his pathetic life knowing that _they_ know what a piece of shit he is. Dean feels frozen by that thought. Terrified. Although an all-consuming magical flame curse is not fucking small potatoes, either. Maybe he should start being a little more freaked out by the part where all of his unworthy ass explodes into blue fire. He glances around.

"Maybe I should be outside for this," he says, and Castiel's eyes narrow. "Uh," Dean says. "Okay. Here it is." He picks the sword up and holds it in front of him, as if he was ready. He's not ready.

Dean inhales, and draws.

There's a sensation that runs along his hand, up through his arm and across his chest, sparking through his ribcage and his heart, a rippling current like an electric jolt, so faint it's almost pleasurable, dancing at the edge of pain. For a second Dean's vision almost whites out with the shock of it, of touching the thing and- of being touched, everywhere at once, jolted inside by a streak of lightning that shoots up to his scalp and down into the soles of his feet, the tips of his toes. His skin feels too small, the blade of the sword is too bright before his eyes, the world swims and wavers. _This is it_ , he thinks. This is the second where I burst into fucking flames. _Goodbye, world_ , Dean thinks. He closes his eyes. He shudders and a great wave of power passes over him, swift and strong and metallic, tasting like ozone and starlight. It doesn't hurt. It feels like he is touching the roots of the planet, the ocean of stars overhead. _Maybe_ , he thinks, it was really quick. He can't feel his limbs. _Maybe I'm already dead_.

"Dean," somebody says. "Dean." He opens his eyes, and there's Castiel, standing up- but not too close- and waving a hand in front of his face. " _Dean_ ," Castiel says. He sounds relieved. "How do you feel?" Dean tries to focus himself. He can feel his legs again, his arms, his hands, all coming back to normal except for the hand that holds the sword. He looks down at that hand and lets out a totally reasonable hysterical yelp.

"What the fuck," Dean says. He holds his arm out in front of him, which swipes the sword out, too. Castiel takes a calm step backwards. "Sorry," Dean says. His hand is pulsing with light, glowing where it grips the sword and fading towards the wrist. The sword itself is bleeding rays of brightness in waves, shimmering as Dean turns it back and forth. It's not heavy anymore but light, easy in his grasp, whistling when he thrusts it through the air in a smooth arc. "Holy fucking shit," Dean manages. "It's the real thing."

"And so are you," Bobby says. Dean turns to look at him, and Bobby rubs a hand across his face. "What?" Bobby huffs. "I ain't cryin'. It's bright in here." Dean doesn't even have the presence of mind to rib him, just goes back to staring at his freaky nitelight of a hand and the glimmering piece of steel attached to it.

" _Draw Dyrnwyn_ ," Castiel says, " _only those of noble worth_." He's reading from the book he holds. Dean looks up and meets his eyes again; they're shining in the light of the sword. Castiel looks fiercely proud. And not for the first time, Dean wonders just what the fuck he sees. More immediately, Dean also wonders why the hell he isn't on fire. Not that it isn't a pleasant surprise. He could get used to the whole magical sword thing after all. Maybe. Castiel smiles at him. He closes the book. "Who wields it in good cause shall slay even the lord of death."

Dean swings the sword again, just to hear the swift, ringing sound it makes.

"Damn right he will," says Dean.

 

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dyrnwyn, the enchanted sword belonging to Rhydderch Hael, is a real piece of Welsh mythology. The passage that Castiel reads, however, is taken from Lloyd Alexander's [Prydain Chronicles.](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Chronicles_of_Prydain)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bobby meets them at the door, wand out. He tests them both for glamours even though he's already just watched them go through the wards without a problem.
> 
> "For fuck's sake," Dean says, when Bobby taps him between the eyes with the point of his wand, and a little spark sizzles his eyebrows. "Bobby."
> 
> "Can't be too careful."
> 
> "He's right," Castiel says, mouth twitching, and Dean resolves to definitely live through tonight and definitely kick his ass sometime in the future.

Early in the morning before the birds have really started to think about getting louder, and the whole world still seems coated in silvery blue, they stand in an alleyway in an old industrial part of London and wait for Bela to open the door. She parts it a crack and sees Dean and Castiel standing out there- Dean shivering, Castiel impassive under two scarves- and then ushers them inside. She leaves them in the living room to get them their prisoner, and for a minute they're alone in one of the shabbiest living rooms in the world. Dean wonders if it's been cleaned this year. He sweeps a finger across the mantle and it comes back coated in a dust so thick it's almost slime. Okay, scratch _year_. He wonders if it's been cleaned this _century_. The place is nothing like the stately, ancient Talbot townhouse on the other side of the city, except for the general sense of decay. This is a worker's row house, a sad little concrete block with the bare minimums of everything. Dean wonders if it's just another one of the Order's shitty bolt-holes, or something more interesting: a momentary muggle blip in the Talbot's supposedly blip-less pedigree.

"He's all yours," Bela says, from the hall. There's a man in a hood and shackles in front of her, and she pushes him none-too-gently into the room. It's the poisoner from a couple weeks ago, some shitty minor lieutenant called Pettigrew who'd been the one to try and murder Dean via meat pie. Which is evil any way you think about it, no matter who signs the guy's checks. He's a pie violater. Dean catches him by the lapel and the guy makes a perfunctory little shake of his shoulders to try and get away, but it's not happening. Dean holds on and the guy gives up, sags a little bit in his grip. The Order won't like Bela slipping away with one of their key prisoners, but Dean's stopped giving a fuck, and he suspects it's catching. Bela was agreeable enough, when they asked her to bust the guy out and hand him over. "I will warn you, boys," Bela says. "He hasn't had a bath in days." She wrinkles her nose. "That's not counting a good _scourgify_ every time his language slips into the vernacular."

"Much obliged," Dean nods. Pettigrew really does stink like a sewer, Jesus. Maybe Castiel will give up one of his scarves for face cover, so that Dean doesn't lose his lunch after they all apparate in close quarters. 

"It's no trouble," Bela says, quietly. "I remain in your debt."

"Nah," Dean says. "You don't."

Castiel takes a minute getting the guy ready to go, putting on the new set of charmed shackles, checking the wards around the links and spelling him for silence. Dean's uncomfortable, watching him. God knows how many times he's had bracelets like that put on. Dean offered to do this part, but Castiel had insisted. _I know how they operate_ , he'd said. Yeah. Of course he does. 

"Your father was a muggle-born, wasn't he?" Bela says. Her voice is still low, and she's standing close enough to Dean that the words don't carry. Across the room, Castiel doesn't seem to have heard. Or else he's just ignoring them. Dean turns his head slowly around to look at her. Her face is thoughtful. Dean doesn't think she was trying to score some kind of point: she did, after all, say _muggle_ instead of _mud_. Bela nods to herself. "I thought so. It's refreshing."

"How, exactly?" Dean says. 

"I've offered you a blood debt and you've shrugged it away," she says. Her cat's eyes are glowing a little, alight with interest. "Purebloods hang onto those things. Trade them around, abuse them. For centuries, if they can manage it. But that's our problem, isn't it?" She smiles but it's bitter on her, hard where it ought to be soft. "Never letting go. And we're so godawfully proud of that. Oh, muggles keep their grudges, of course. Human nature. But you generally have the grace to be ashamed of it." Dean snorts. "We're a rotten lot," Bela says. "Purebloods."

"Not all of you."

"Very gentlemanly, Mister Winchester," Bela says. "Castiel's manners are rubbing off on you."

" _Castiel's manners_ ," Dean repeats, incredulously. "I'm sorry, which Castiel have _you_ -"

"Are we ready to go?" Castiel interrupts.

They are.

 

 

 

Dean pulls the hood off Pettigrew once they're clear of the wards that run along the entrances to Diagon Alley, tucked into a side street. They're a couple of blocks from the part where the cute little winding paths turn sharply and veer off into covered alleyways, into the less friendly shadows of Knockturn. Castiel is keeping watch at the edge of the corner, hands in his coat pockets. He's trying to look casual. Dean doesn't have the heart to tell him he's surveying the neighborhood like a helmed knight from an old-fashioned kings' guard doing a field inspection. It's endearingly hopeless. 

"A-are you g-going to kill me?" Pettigrew gasps, as Dean lifts the silencing charm. Dean rolls his eyes and pushes the guy backwards. When Pettigrew's shoulders hit the wall, he actually squeaks with terror. Dean can see why he opted for the whole poison thing, over trying to corner Dean on his own. 

"No," Dean says. "Cheer up, somebody will. You've got a real killable face." Pettigrew stares at him and the balance of confused to terrified shifts a little. "Forget it. I need you to take a message for me." 

"Who's it f-for?"

"Your boss."

"I d-don't know who-"

"Your master," Dean says. Something flashes through Pettigrew's eyes then, something sharp and cold. Something authentic. Dean was looking for it, and there it is. "You know who I mean."

"I might," Pettigrew says.

"I want you to tell him- hell, I want you to tell _everybody_ ," Dean says, and leans closer, "that tonight- at midnight- at the old church at Llanafan Fawr, Dean Winchester is going to finish the fucking job."

"Is he," Pettigrew says. "And what job might that be?"

"The one my mother started," Dean says. "He'll know what I mean." He shoves Pettigrew back and draws his wand. Pettigrew whimpers and screws his face up, but Dean just breaks the wards on the cuffs. They pop and fall off, and Pettigrew stands there for a minute rubbing his wrists and watching Dean carefully with sullen, wary eyes. "Now get the fuck out of here," Dean says. Pettigrew goes. Castiel comes up behind Dean and they watch Pettigrew scurry off into the morning crowds coming into the street, slipping through the little queues starting to form up at a handful of the shops that open early. Pettigrew moves faster than Dean thought he would; after a second Dean loses sight of him altogether between a couple of witches in tall hats, or somewhere behind a painted sign. Gone, then. And hopefully not just down the nearest hole.

"You think he'll take the bait?" Castiel asks. The back of his hand brushes Dean's where it hangs at his side, and maybe it's unintentional but Dean takes advantage of it. He curls his fingers around Castiel's wrist, slides a little bit up his coat sleeve to circle his pulse. Maybe it's a needy gesture, but fuck it, who cares. Dean wants to hang onto him, even if it's just for a second. Castiel doesn't turn his head, but the hard line of his jaw turns soft.

"Yeah," Dean says. "I do."

"Then let's be ready," Castiel says. But he doesn't move to apparate. Instead he turns and leans up to press his mouth over Dean's, cups his free hand around Dean's neck and tugs him closer into it. Dean shuts his eyes and kisses back, harder than he means to, a little more desperately. After a couple of seconds Castiel lets him go but Dean dips in again, quickly, one more time. And comes away with his face starting to flush, his eyes downcast. He's being such a fucking kid. They don't have time for this. They have to get back to Bobby, get loaded up, get the fucking show on the road. And so of course Dean wants to waste time necking in this alleyway in case- Jesus, in case he never gets to do it again. Dean pulls away and straightens his shoulders, tries to get hold of himself. Job to do. "Dean," Castiel says. 

"I'm good," Dean says. "I'm good."

Castiel doesn't say anything, but he does hold onto him while they apparate. Maybe it's a wolf thing, that sixth sense. Dean doesn't know. But maybe not. Maybe it's just Castiel.

 

 

 

Bobby meets them at the door, wand out. He tests them both for glamours even though he's already just watched them go through the wards without a problem.

"For fuck's sake," Dean says, when Bobby taps him between the eyes with the point of his wand, and a little spark sizzles his eyebrows. "Bobby."

"Can't be too careful."

"He's right," Castiel says, mouth twitching, and Dean resolves to definitely live through tonight and definitely kick his ass sometime in the future.

They pack up and apparate for the farm in Dufftown with a bunch of canvas bags. At his makeshift farm vault Castiel unearths a few things he thinks they'll need, and then they're off again. The three of them land outside of Llanafan Fawr in the woods, on the border of a muggle farm. In the distance there are a couple of cars on the road that bisects the countryside, but there's not much else moving. Dean can smell wet sheep and wet earth everywhere around. Bobby walks around with Castiel putting up wards and disillusionments, and then the three of them settle in with a map of the place and a giant thermos of hot tea that Dean remembered to bring along at the last minute. He's also got a bag of dried sausages and a little jar of pickles and half a loaf of bread, but he's saving that for later. They sit and mark traps and chart ward lines, and Dean and Bobby argue about where exactly Dean's going to be for the ritual.

"Behind the line," Bobby says. "That's where."

"I can take care of myself." 

"The point is, you shouldn't have to," Castiel says. "The Order is coming out in force. Finishing the ritual is the priority, and we'll make sure-"

" _Sam_ is the priority," Dean hisses. Bobby and Castiel glance at each other. It's just a look, but it freezes Dean to the bone. "What?" There's tense silence between them, and then Bobby sighs and itches at the brim of his cap.

"We'll go straight for him," Bobby says, finally. "That's the plan. I'm not saying any different."

"Spit it out, Bobby."

"We don't know for sure if there's anything left to save," Bobby says. "Your dad-"

"He didn't need dad," Dean says. "He needs Sam. Needs him alive. Probably. We don't know. We don't know either way, so whatever we do, we have to act like Sam's alive in there. Getting that fucker out of Sam, getting Sam loose, is number one." Nobody says anything. " _Number fucking one_ ," Dean repeats. "Anybody who wants to disagree can hit the fucking road. Okay? Are we on the same page now?"

"Sure," Bobby says. "Since you're being so goddamn sweet about it." When Dean glares at him, he puts his hands up. "I'm not disagreeing. I'm happy to die for that boy, Dean. But if the moment comes and there's- if there's nothin' left, and you gotta make a choice-"

"Don't," says Dean. "Seriously, don't." Bobby frowns, but doesn't argue. They don't talk about it any more; they go back to the lines of traps and Castiel keeps them talking with questions about spacing and timing issues. Dean can tell he's trying to distract them from other thoughts, and appreciates it. But the biggest piece of the puzzle is still missing, and he's not one fucking inch closer to figuring it out. They've got no leads on the wheel, and without it, they've got no ritual, nothing but a bunch of grave-trap tricks and a handful of firepower. It won't be enough. Dean shifts in his seat and finally just stands up. "I'm going to take a walk," Dean says, interrupting something Bobby's saying about fisher's snares. They both look at him, and then Bobby nods. Dean takes a quick jog up the ridge, further into the woods. Behind him, the wards muffle the sound of Bobby and Castiel talking- the further he goes, the quieter it gets, until it's just the sound of his feet scuffing in fallen leaves and wet scrub, the softer sounds of branches rattling and sighing overhead. The woods are quiet and the birds are barely calling. The air's growing colder while the horizon starts to settle into a long orange line. The sun'll go down fully in less than an hour, and then it'll start. Dean said midnight but he knows they won't wait. They'll expect a trap, and be ready for it. Dean's just got to make sure it's more than they bargained for. He walks and tries to think, tries to spin his mind around the problem- _spinning_ , wheels, silver wheels- but all he can think about is Sam's face on the dock. His white eyes and blank face, the way he vanished. Dean's thinking himself into darker and darker circles when there's the gentle snap of a twig behind him. He whirls and puts his wand up, but it's Castiel.

Castiel doesn't say anything. He falls into step with Dean and they walk a little further, close to the edge of the woods. The thinning trees mean that the church is in sight, and the yew tree. Above them, the sky is already darkening to heavy blue. Dean exhales and watches his breath go up, and feels Castiel lean in, to rest their shoulders together. He's so close Dean can feel his chest rise and fall when he exhales.

" _Let thy west wind sleep on the lake_ ," he says, after a little while. Softly, almost to himself. "Speak silence with thy glimmering eyes." He falls silent again and Dean nudges him, glances over to give him a faint smile. Castiel smiles back, just as faintly. "And wash the dusk," he starts again, and then stops abruptly. He goes so stiff and shocked-looking that Dean turns around, checks the horizon line and then the woods behind them, wand drawn. Castiel is still staring off into space when Dean comes back and shakes his arm.

"What?" Dean whispers. "Cas, what do you see?"

" _And wash the dusk with silver_ ," Castiel says. He turns on Dean with wide, intense eyes. "Silver, Dean. Arianrhod's wheel." Dean grips him harder.

"You figured it out?"

" _Caer Arianrhod_ ," Castiel says. "Her heavenly castle. The Greeks called it the northern crown, but the Welsh- it's the _Corona Borealis_ , it's an arch. A half-circle." He's shaking with excitement. "Stars, Dean. _Stars_."

Dean says the only thing he can think of, which is: " _Holy fucking shit_."

They sprint back to Bobby as fast as they can, running in urgent silence, but when they come back to the clearing they find him facing off against a handful of confused-looking wizards in traveling robes. Bobby's wand is out and a couple of the others have drawn theirs, but it looks less like a tense standoff than a misunderstanding. There's a tall man in a fine blue robe talking angrily at Bobby, but Dean can't hear him- good wards- until they're almost close enough to trip over. Dean recognizes him straight away, and skids to a stop just at the edge of the ridge. 

"Henriksen!" Dean hollers down. "Stop hassling my old man."

Henriksen turns around with the others; he's still in the same neatly-tailored dress robes that scream _auror_ , but Dean sees immediately that he's missing his badges. Nobody else in the group is wearing any identification, either, even though Dean's pretty sure he recognizes a couple of their faces from Ministry hallways. Castiel told him who to expect at this little shindig- gave him the full rundown of the Order last night, finally, and apologized for not doing it sooner- but Dean's still kind of holding a grudge for the whole getting arrested fiasco. Sure, Henriksen had a pretty serious cover to keep. Dean gets it. But the guy could have just said he was fucking Order and not jerked Dean around for a couple of hours for no good goddamn reason. Henriksen sighs and lowers his wand, and the others take his lead. Bobby keeps his wand up, of course, because he's a paranoid old son of a bitch. Dean wouldn't have him any other way.

"Victor," Castiel says, from beside Dean, and Henriksen inclines his head in greeting.

"Castiel."

"First names," Dean grumbles. "Cozy. So is this everybody?"

"No," Henriksen says. "I've got three on a wide perimeter."

"Good," Bobby says. "We're gonna need 'em."

" _Bobby_ ," Dean says, remembering why the fuck they were just sprinting. "Cas figured it out. The wheel." Bobby looks between them both for confirmation and then full-on _beams_ at Castiel, looking like he did the last time Dean brought home a decent report card.

"I'll be damned," he says. 

"How many of you know how to set a fisher's snare?" Dean asks, turning to the group. A couple of people raise their hands- a couple of old aurors, Dean guesses, and some twenty-something girl with purple hair. "Good, you're with me. Anybody who has a tight hand with wards, you're with Bobby. Anybody good with potions?" One of the figures hanging back from the group moves forward then, and slips the silk hood from her head. It's Bela, looking like she just stepped off the cover of _Fashionable Underground Cell Member Weekly_. 

"I'm no Severus," Bela says, "but I'll do my best."

"You're with Cas," Dean says. "Good to see you," he adds, as she passes. Bela nods at him and slips between the others to join Castiel; Dean watches a couple of people turn away from her, making sour faces and talking quickly under their breath. "What?" he asks them, and they visibly start. "Somebody's got something to say?" There's a couple of mutters, but nobody gets a sentence out. Henriksen comes up next to Dean and the little group scatters, breaking up to follow Bobby or to look over the materials.

"The Talbots aren't exactly popular with the rest of the Order," Henriksen says, quietly. "The incident with Severus was the final straw for some."

"So, Bela's got a shitty brother," Dean shrugs. "Luck of the draw."

"The Talbot family once served Azazel," Henriksen says, and Dean swivels to look him in the eye. He doesn't look like he's yanking Dean's chain, but then, the guy plays it pretty damn close to the vest. "Bela's parents, in fact. They've been dead a long time, but- these things have an afterlife." Dean watches her lean closer as Castiel speaks, the attentive way she listens and nods. Nobody else in that particular circle is standing close to Castiel- they're hanging back, watching him with the same kind of looks they gave to Bela.

"She's right," Dean says.

"Right about-"

"Wizards," Dean says. "Purebloods, whatever, this whole worked-up system. Old blood. Old grudges. Shit dead people did." Dean puts his hands up. "That's what this is all about. Azazel wants to go over the wall like Arawn did, a thousand years ago. My mom tries to stop him, so he takes it out on my brother. Round and fucking round."

"You won't get an argument from me," Henriksen says, mildly. "Always preferred football to the Holyhead Harpies."

"No shit?" Dean whistles. "Muggle-born?"

"Thoroughly," Henriksen says. Somebody calls his name. "See you out there, Dean."

"Yeah," Dean says. He looks out across the clearing, at the wizards carrying Bobby's duffels and crowding around the maps, getting a fire started for the potions. Their makeshift little army. And then he looks up at the slice of sky he can see through the branches overhead. It's nearly dark. In a few minutes they'll be up there, blinking down from a million miles away. He should have known. Should have remembered. _Sêr yn eneidiau_ , she used to say. Stars are souls. Bright things long remembered, beacons in the darkest places. Shining like hope. "See you," Dean echoes, but Henriksen's already gone.

He doesn't know exactly who he's talking to.

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the woods, Castiel quotes "To the Evening Star," by William Blake (1757-1827).


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Trigger Warning** for mild implications of past childhood abuse (this chapter only).

"A muggle _gun_?" one of the aurors yells. He's screaming at Bobby when Dean rolls down behind the earth wall and crouches there for a second, trying to catch his breath. A blast hits the furrow they're all ducked under, and earth sprays up around them, throwing mud and dead grass into the air. Dean tries to cover his face but gets an eyeful of grit anyway. He rubs at it with his free hand. The sword in the other one is still glowing electric, sending warm throbs of energy up and into his arm. There's a serious disadvantage to a flaming mythical blade, Dean's realized. Your enemies never have any fucking problem finding you in the dark. Another spray of earth goes up, and the hit's harder and closer this time. Beside him, Bobby swears under his breath and opens the Colt's empty cylinder and gives it a hard spin. "You brought a _muggle gun_ ," the auror repeats, kind of hysterically. "Now you're, what, out of bullets?"

"Watch and learn, kid," Bobby says. When the cylinder stops spinning, all six chambers are full again, with bullets that shimmer slightly. _Old family recipe_ , Bobby always called those slugs. Bobby snaps it back in and lifts up a couple of inches to peer over the edge of the earth mound. He aims, fires with a loud crack, and there's a pained scream from somewhere out in the dark. Bobby slides back down and the auror stares at him open-mouthed. "Never was especially quick, wand-wise," Bobby admits. There's ash and mud on his face, and a burn mark on his baseball cap. He grins. "But I sure can shoot." 

"Bobby," Dean interrupts. "Where's Cas?"

"Saw him chasing some big guy into the church," Bobby says. "Didn't see anybody come back out."

" _Fuck_ ," Dean says. "Okay. Cover me."

Bobby nods and he and the auror slide up at the same time, firing off a hail of curses and bullets at the masked figures clinging to the treeline. Dean crouches until he's got a hedge to run behind, and then legs it as fast as he can towards the little churchyard, trying to keep the sword low to block some of its _come-get-me_ radiance. Around him there's smaller struggles everywhere, wizards hurling jets of light, traps going off and tossing bodies into the air like springboards. Dark smoke is moving everywhere like thick shadows over the surface of the ground, forming itself into shapes that attack like packs of dogs, swirling eddies of inhuman arms and grasping claws. A tendril of that smoke circles Dean and he cuts his way through it, hearing the keening screams and feeling the burn where the dark cloud touches bare flesh, trying to keep from breathing it in. When he's free he sprints across the yard, looking everywhere for a glimpse of Castiel, or Sam, or fucking _anybody_ he recognizes. One of the hedges is ragingly on fire. Dean almost gets caught by a hex that whistles past his head, and then the next moment he watches the short purple-headed witch violently clothesline somebody in a bone mask and stun them flat. It's absolute fucking pandemonium. 

Has been, since it started.

 

 

 

It was after sundown and Dean was still laying fisher's snares and boom-traps at points along the churchyard, being careful to leave clear paths that the Order could fight around. 

"When you're laying traps, hook them to a landmark," Dean was saying, gesturing at a gravestone with the end of his wand. "Something obvious for us but not to them. And then- I can't stress this enough- don't fucking touch it. And don't trap every single stone," he called to the Order, as they scattered out around the church. "Trust me, you're going to want something safe to hide behind."

They'd mapped out positions already and Bobby was putting people into place, setting perimeter wards and then tighter ones around the church grounds. Cas and Bela were inside the church doing God knows what, and Dean was trying to make sure they didn't set so many magical land mines that they'd blow _themselves_ up making a run across the field. It was tense work, they were running out of time, and everybody knew it. The darkness didn't help. The thin, waning moon was up and the stars were out, sky bare of clouds, and the world was eerily quiet. Too fucking quiet. Dean had Dyrnwyn strapped to his waist, still in that crusty scabbard, but he could feel it thrumming faintly at his hip even through the leather and his jeans. Kind of a weird sensation. Not totally bad, just- weird.

"Dean," Castiel said, from somewhere just behind him. "This is for you." He held out a little hex bag, no bigger than a walnut, strung onto a thin cord. Dean inclined his head and let Castiel loop it around his neck; when he leaned up, Castiel tucked the charm under his shirt. His hand had lingered a second in the spot over Dean's heart. "You'll have to be close to him. We'll try to separate him from the others. Give you the time you need."

"Yeah."

"It's all in there. Bark from the tree, water from the well-"

"How'd you get the starlight in?" Dean had said, and then regretted it, because what a fucking time for jokes. But Castiel had smiled at him.

"Secret," he'd said. His eyes were worried. "We still don't know how to end it," Castiel reminded him. "We have the ingredients but we don't know the final words."

"They'll come to me."

Dean had looked out then and seen it, at the edge of the field. Next to him, Castiel had tensed and lifted his head. They were out there. Dean could see them, coming into view: a far line of movement, just the faintest glint of moonlight on figures shifting out of the trees. Pale reflection against the edges of bone masks. Those creepy, theatrical fucks. "They're here," he'd turned to call out, and right about the same second a massive crack of golden light had hit Bobby's wards above their heads. The world shook and Dean's ears rang, and the wards trembled and pulsed, but they held. A second hit thundered off the wards and aurors had run to shore up the hole it left, getting tiny sparks rained down on their heads. Victor and Bobby were on the outer ring, calling out orders to two groups taking position around the ward lines. Dean had tried to see _him_ \- his eyes scanned for the tallest figure, desperately hoping- but then the ground around them shook so hard he'd toppled into Castiel and then onto a grave marker, landing hard on his back while the earth heaved and groaned and rippled like it was trying to shake them off the surface of the world. Castiel pulled him back up and together they'd stared at the edge of the earth mound just past the churchyard, where a gaping hole in the ground was vomiting dark smoke and dirt spray, cracking open like a hungry mouth. "What the _fuck_ ," Dean had time to say, and then darkness was pouring out of it, thick clouds that started to form into terrible shapes, terrible inhuman things with too many legs and arms-

-and, well. 

Pandemonium.

 

 

 

Dean makes it into the church at last, shouldering past the heavy door and the body slumped against it. He stops for a second to check it- _not Cas not Sam_ he prays, heart thundering in terror- but it's nobody he recognizes. _Sorry_ , he thinks. He can't spare any more than that, not at the moment. Dean moves on into the nave of the church. The old-fashioned wooden benches have been blown apart and thrown like matchsticks into splintered piles. Bela is dueling one of the hood-and-mask crowd, an older guy with a tight, scarred face, and from the look of things his luck has dried up. She's hurling curses with deadly grace, barely breaking her composure. Dean ducks the long arc of a _crucio_ and hurls a stunning spell that deflects off the hooded guy's shielding charm.

"This one's mine," Bela hisses at Dean, and whips a bolt of red light from the end of her wand; it catches the guy in the left shoulder and he goes spinning into the far wall. Bela hits him again, hard and fast, and he goes limp, rolling into a busted-up bench with a loud _thunk_. He's already down when she hits him a third time, now with less finesse and more raw anger. Dean watches her sling a full-body bind onto him, and then run a trembling hand through her hair. She looks up. "Not that I don't appreciate-"

"Hey," Dean says. "I get it. You seen Cas?" Bela shakes her head. 

"He came this way after Dolohov. They did this," she adds, and gestures at the benches, "and went out the side door." 

"Thanks," Dean says. He goes for the side door and then glances back. There's a gash on her temple and a line of blood sliding down her cheekbone, down her throat. "You good?" he asks. Bela nods. Her eyes flicker down to the man she's stunned and bound, and then back at Dean. The corners of her mouth curl up slightly. In front of the broken altar she looks like a pagan goddess come for tribute. He doesn't know exactly who the guy is- or why Bela's looking at him like a hungry tiger- but it seems like something personal. 

"Never better," she says, still smiling. She rolls the guy onto his back with the toe of her boot. "We're just lovely, aren't we, dear old uncle Amycus," she purrs. A shiver goes up Dean's spine. Well, thank fuck they're on the same side.

Dean leaves her to her business. 

There's a cloud of that thick, oily dark smoke circling the outside of the church. Dean stops in the doorway and watches it, tries to see the thinnest part. He sees it swirling angrily against the outer walls of the church and then, weirdly, sees it recoil hastily into itself, exploding into smaller clouds and then re-forming elsewhere. So. Can't touch the church. And probably can't enter it. Good to know. Dean catches one of the junior aurors running around the perimeter, pulls her into doorway just as a tendril of black smoke tries to curl around her ankle. Dean slashes Dyrnwyn down, cuts the smoke off, and it hisses backwards. It coils up, looking like it wants to lash out, but can't bring itself to cross the boundary of the threshold. _Good_ , Dean thinks. That's something.

"Thanks," the auror says, breathing heavily. It's the purple-haired girl, only her hair isn't purple anymore, it's a kind of burnt orange. Metamorphmagus, Dean realizes, startling a little. He thinks about Meg, and then puts that thought into the _worry about it later or hopefully never_ box. "What the hell is that stuff?"

"No fucking clue," Dean says. "Listen, can you find Victor or Bobby?" She nods. "Whatever that shit is, it can't get into the church. Tell them. Tell anybody you can find. The church is our fallback if we get overwhelmed."

"Got it." She gives him a funny little salute, and her hair shifts to a burning, fluorescent red. She turns to go and then says, " _Tonks_ ," over her shoulder.

"Come again?"

"Tonks," she repeats. "In case we live, you should know what to call me." She grins and then disappears out the front door, wand up and shoulders squared.

Dean raises Dyrnwyn and the shadows circling the side door waver a little; he makes a run for it, down the center where the clouds are thinnest. It stings him wherever it lands, but Dyrnwyn burns right back, humming with energy as Dean swings it in slashing arcs. The clouds seem to melt on contact, shrieking where the sword divides them in two. Dean runs by a gravestone with a glowing mark on it and taps it with the edge of his sword as he sprints by, setting off the trap. A massive fisher's snare springs up like a glittering golden net, snatching up a thick cloud of the smoke and dragging it to earth. He doesn't know if a curse can hold smoke- or if it'll run out like air from a balloon- but the writhing mass of darkness stays inside the net's gleaming lines, struggling like a spider with a thousand flailing limbs. It stays down, and Dean makes his way across to the field. He can see a fight in the distance, just two jets of light colliding, sparks and explosions sending up showers of earth and fragments of broken stone. Dean tries to see that ridiculous trenchcoat, but there are too many figures in the field, moving too quickly. He runs faster. He's almost on them- he sees the coat now, Castiel whipping curses that cut rivets into the ground when they miss- and the breath is coming hard in his chest, he's so close, when the ground shakes again and rises up in front of him, heaves itself open in a rush of dirt and stale air. Another crater opens up, this time deeper and wider. Dean's going so fast he actually slides when he falls backwards, rolls for a few feet, skids right to the edge of the hole in the earth. His legs dangle at the edge of the cliff and kick at air until he pushes himself backwards. He's on his back on the dirt, clutching Dyrnwyn. He can hear somebody shouting his name. And then a tall shadow falls over him.

"Dean," it says, in Sam's voice. Dean scrambles back to his feet, levels the blade between them. The thing in Sam's body cocks its head. It's so fucking wrong, so un-Sam, that Dean's whole body shudders in disgust. Azazel smiles. His golden eyes radiate. "Delighted to get your invitation," he says. 

"Get out of him," Dean says.

"Why should I?" Azazel spreads Sam's arms wide. "He was made for me. A perfect vessel. No powers of his own. An empty bowl, waiting to be filled."

"I swear to every god there is," Dean says, "I'll kill you."

"You'll try," Azazel says. "And you'll fail, son of Mary."

Dean feints with the sword and Azazel turns to avoid it, casts crookedly and off-balance, missing Dean by a wide shot. Dean was ready for that, wand in his other hand- he casts quick and hits a glancing blow off Sam's shoulder that sends Azazel backwards, closer to the edge of the rift. But Azazel's reflexes are quick, he twists and sends off a wordless curse that Dyrnwyn barely deflects. The force of it drives Dean backwards and sends blue sparks off the blade. Before Dean can strike back Azazel is on him, fighting close in Sam's body- Dean can't use the sword on him, can't risk killing Sam, so he blocks and tries to move out of range, jamming a shield charm between them to try and push Azazel backwards. Azazel knows what he's trying to do and stays on top of him, striking out with Sam's big, blunt hands and grabbing Dean by the shirtfront, tearing at him. They struggle together and Dean gets the blade to his throat. They're locked like that for a long second, Dean panting and his hand shaking, the blue blade a hair's breadth from the flesh of Sam's neck, the beat of his pulse. Drynwyn thunders in his blood like he's touching live wires. Azazel laughs. "Do it," he says. "Do it. Fulfill your oath. Kill me. Shed his blood." Dean's hand clenches around the sword hilt. " _Do it_ ," Azazel hisses. "Coward. Coward like your mother, too afraid to strike the final blow-" he says, and cuts off when Dean slides the blade closer, tighter. A drop of blood wells out from Sam's neck and Dean stares at it, horrified. He freezes. And Azazel stabs upward with his wand and sends a _crucio_ straight up Dean's chest, into the heart. It blows Dean backwards through the air; he loses his grip on the wand, the sword, as the aftershocks shake him and send screaming agony through his nerves. Dean rolls in the dirt, tries to shake the curse off. He grabs for the hex bag that Castiel gave him, but it's gone. The thin cord has snapped and the hex bag is gone. Azazel must have torn it off, must have known- he looks up and finds Azazel staring down at him, wand aimed straight at Dean's pounding head. He's wandless, helpless. It's the end. Dean tenses, expecting the final blow. 

It doesn't come.

Dean watches Sam's face contort itself strangely, twisting into a mask of rage and then of confusion. The hand holding Azazel's wand shakes. "You," Azazel says, furiously, "you cannot, how _dare_ -" he hisses, and then falls silent. His golden eyes go white, and then clear to a faded hazel. "Dean," he says. " _Dean_."

Dean's heart drops into his knees.

"Sam?"

"Dean," he repeats. His hand's still trembling, like he's trying to shake the wand off, trying to let it go, and can't. "I don't think-"

"Sam," Dean says, in a rush of relief. His legs feel weak from it. "I knew it, I knew you were in there," he says, and gets up. But when he takes a step closer, reaches for Sam's arm, Sam takes a step back. Raises the wand a little higher. "Sam-"

"I can't hold him," Sam says. His voice is raw, like he's been screaming. "I can't."

"You can," Dean says. "Fight him, Sam. I'll find- there's a hex bag, mom's spell- we can finish it." He steps closer and Sam trembles. "We can finish it. Trust me. Hold on." Sam's eyes are red-rimmed and he blinks a couple of times, manages a forced smile. Dean watches him lift the wand a little, bring it closer to his body, like he's finally relaxed. 

"I'm not a wizard," Sam says.

"Hey, that doesn't matter," Dean says. He holds his hands out, reaches with palms up. "It never mattered to me. You're fine. You're tough. We're gonna make this right."

"It's strange," Sam says. "I can feel- I can finally feel what it's like." He stares down at himself in wonder. His face looks so terribly young. Like he was thirteen yesterday, big eyes and stumbling feet, Dean's baby brother dressed in somebody else's robes. "All this power. It's nothing like I thought it would be." His smile falters and fades. "I was never going to be a wizard," he says. He sounds so, so very tired. "But you taught me everything I needed to know." Sam puts the tip of the wand underneath his chin, presses it hard to his jaw. Dean's head spins. No, no no no- no, he can't, he can't, this isn't happening- "I'm sorry."

" _NO!_ " Dean screams, and runs for him, lunges with his arms out wide, but it's too late, it's too late-

" _Avada kedavra_ ," Sam says, clearly, and the world explodes in green light. Dean is already jumping for him, hits him right in the middle of his chest; the blast blinds him for a second and he can't see Sam at all, can't hear anything over the ringing in his ears. Dean grabs for him and hangs on and for a second they're tipping down together into space, into nothingness. Somebody is screaming, sharp and terrified. And then they're falling further, fast and away, down into the hole in the ground, right off the edge.

Down into the dark.

 

 

 

_There are things you're gonna have to know_ , Dean told him. _Things I hope you'll never need_. It was after the fiasco with Meg, after the lady with the scissors cutting Sam's hair, calling him _the boy who lived_. It seems so long ago. _There are a lot of weirdos in this world, Sam_. A lot of dangerous things. Spells and charms and enchanted weapons. There's deadly shit around every corner. Not just for wizards. _You can't work 'em, sure, but you ought to know them_. Even if you're tired of playing spells, you better pay attention. You ought to be able to recognize them, Sam. Because you've got to watch yourself. There are lots of things waiting in the dark. Curses and hexes and traps. 

So many unforgivable things.

"Anybody says that stuff around you, even breathes it, you get the hell out of there, you got it?" Dean had said. "Tell me you understand." And Sam had nodded and then looped their pinkies together like a kid, grinning doofily, even though he was going on fifteen and way too cool for Dean's wizard crap anymore. Meg changing had scared him, maybe more than he'd ever admit. Dean was glad at least that this lesson was going to take. "Promise you won't forget," Dean said.

"Cross my heart," said Sam.


	19. Chapter 19

Dean chokes and wakes and rolls onto his side, coughing out grit and blood. His hands dig into the gravel around him and he pushes up a little, tries to see where he's landed. There are tiny stones stuck to the skin of his face; when he rubs them away his hands come away a little bloody. Lucky him, he probably landed on his head. It's hard to see anything in the dark. There's a field of stones in front of him, little tiny chipped rocks and flatter pebbles, and ahead of him- probably fifty yards out, give or take Dean's depth perception- is a low stone wall. It's neat on both sides but old and broken in the middle, sagging into a pile of loose stones and overgrown with moss. It's kind of- uh, glowing. _Phosphorescent_ , Sam would probably say. Like a creepy white-eyed fish from the bottom of the ocean. There's a weird glow down here that's not quite moonlight. Dean tilts his head back to look up at the place where they fell from. He can see a slit of lighter sky above, somewhere, though everything is hazy and it's still the middle of the night. It's less like they tumbled down a well and more like they fell into a cavern, a gap between the upper skin of the world and, well. The underworld. Dean wonders where the fuck they are, if this is some sort of massive cave complex, or if he's died and gone to the banks of the Styx. He pushes himself up and stands. His legs aren't broken, his back throbs but his spine's okay, and his arms are only sore, scattered with cuts. Looks like they mostly rolled when he-

"Sam!" Dean shouts. He spins, looking for a body in a black robe. For anything. " _Sam_!" There are shadows gathering on the other side of that stone wall, thick shadows in a cloud, like the ones that were attacking them up above. Dean looks around for his sword, his wand, and can't see either of them. But he sees something else. A crumpled shape lying to the side of the hill they rolled down. Dean breaks into a sprint, feet slipping on the stones. He sinks into them like sand every few steps and has to drag himself up and forward. _Please God_ , he thinks as he goes. It becomes a chant in his head: _Please God Please God_ -

It's Sam.

Dean kneels at his side and rolls him over onto his back, stifling a sob in his throat. There's a ragged scorch mark and wet, ugly burns on Sam's throat, climbing his face, from the impact of the curse. His eyes are shut and his face is bloody and torn from sliding down the slope with Dean. His arms are limp and they sag when Dean shakes him, tries to get him awake. Dean cradles his head and wipes the blood out of his eyes, holds his face between his hands. "Sam, please," he begs, "Sam wake up- _Dduw_ , please, _Crist_ \- Sam, wake the fuck up." Dean tries to find a place on Sam's throat that isn't burned and he puts his fingers against it and waits. And feels a pulse. Dean leans his forehead down to rest against Sam's chest, and feels the faintest heartbeat through his skin. He's not dead. He's not dead. Dean shuts his eyes and tries not to cry but he can't help it, it comes out in a rush, and he's pressing his face into the front of those horrible dirty robes and gulping air in huge sobs. _Mam_ , he thinks. "Mam," he says, out loud, croaking, like a broken-hearted baby. She's been dead for more than twenty years and he wishes to God she were here right now, wishes he could feel her arms around him, wishes the world wasn't so fucking terrible and sad and he wasn't such a fuck-up and he wasn't alone down here, not knowing what the fuck to do. He lies there for a second and holds onto Sam, and wills his breathing to slow down. He sits up and looks around again. He pulls himself the fuck together. And then he hovers his hand over the wrecked flesh around Sam's neck and murmurs a healing charm; the skin and muscle there sluggishly start to knit their burned edges back together. It's a good sign. Healing charms don't work on the dead. "Hold on," Dean says. He touches his hand briefly to the top of Sam's head, his matted hair, and strokes it. "I'm gonna get you out of here."

When Dean gets up and turns around, the shadows gathering on the far side of the wall are closer and heavier, rolling like smoke from a fast-burning fire. There are strange lights in them now, flickering like flames. He can smell dry wood and char and something sickly, the strange sweet smell of mold and rot. He scours the ground around them for his wand, for Dyrnwyn. He sifts through the pebbles at the bottom of the slope, and his fingers close around something soft. "I'll be damned," Dean murmurs. It's the hex bag Azazel tore from his throat, still tied tightly and hanging on its cord. Dean shoves it deep into the pocket of his jeans, and when he gets up to check on Sam, the rolling clouds tear across the wall and slash at him, cutting through the air in hissing streaks. Dean rolls to avoid it, winces at the touch of the acrid smoke on his already wounded arms. He scrambles across the field and tries to shelter against the wall, but the clouds batter him, knocking him down, smothering him until he can't hold his air any longer, and a long tendril of cloud sears its way down his throat. Dean spits and coughs and crawls away from it, punching at the thick rolls of it with his bare hands. It breaks apart and re-forms and follows him, wraps itself around his back legs and pulls. Dean grabs for a hold and comes away with handfuls of gravel. The clouds drag him backwards and flip him over and then he's on his back in the dirt with the dark smoke looming over him, crackling with energy and forming itself into a great coil, moved by invisible winds.

 _You thought you were rid of me_ , it hisses. Dean blinks upward, confused. The voice is in his head. _That's right_ , it rumbles. _I am here. I am all around you_.

"What the fuck are you?" Dean demands. He kicks fruitlessly at the coils of smoke holding his legs. He hears cruel laughter ringing in his ears, so loud and sharp and throbbing that he puts his hands up to stop the sound of it- but he can't, it's inside him, it's everywhere.

 _You know my name_ , it says. Dean stares into the swirling mass above his head.

"Azazel," he says.

 _Death is nothing to me_ , the clouds hiss. They rumble and flicker with strange currents, golden sparks of lightning, like his hateful eyes. _It is not the first time_. _I have crossed the wall so many times, I am death's master_. Dean's brain plays catch-up for a second, and then his jaw drops. 

"Sam killed you," Dean says, awed. "Holy shit, he actually killed you."

 _Enough_ , Azazel shrieks, and the clouds toss Dean away, scrape him over the rocks and leave him in a bruised heap. _Death is nothing. The dead serve me_. The smoke coils again, huge and angry overhead, like a cobra gathering itself to strike. _See how I gather them to me. How I command them_.

"Command this," Dean says, and flips him the bird. He's got the hex bag in his other hand, dug out of his pocket. "By the Holywell," Dean calls, voice ringing out against the rocks, "by-" he starts, and gets swiped across the stomach by a grasping hand of the cloud. He's flung backwards into the rocky slope, breath knocked away. "By the yew!" he shouts, and the clouds break around him, try to coil down his throat until he's gasping. He can feel the smoke hissing between his fingers, digging for the bag, burning everywhere it touches. It's in his ears, his mouth, up his nose. He rolls and fights and chokes for air and suddenly there's a shower of small rocks down on them, the sound of someone yelling. The smoke recoils and Dean looks up, up at the hole that shows a little moonlight. There's someone careening down the slope. It's Castiel, sliding down on his heels, calling for Dean. He's scrambling down onto the rocks; he loses his balance and falls the rest of the way and lands in a heap at the bottom. "Cas!" Dean yells. Castiel gets up and the smoke whips around to deal with him, reaching out long strands of crackling dark clouds. "Cas, get _out_ , run-"

But Castiel stands his ground. Dean watches him swing up the stick he's holding and- holy shit, it's not a stick at all, Dean realizes. It's Dyrnwyn in the scabbard. 

"Come on," Castiel yells at the smoke, at Azazel, at the raging fire-clouds gathering around him, morphing into the shape of an enormous creature. Dean watches in horror as the shadows finally curl into twisting arms and legs, a rippling spine, a terrible formless head with a wreath of flame. Castiel holds the sword up between them, baiting the thing, and it howls at him in rage. "Come and get me, you son of a bitch!"

Castiel pulls the sword, and Dyrnwyn bursts into towering flames.

For a second Dean can't breathe, can't see- there's just a wash of white light edged in blue, a column of pure fire so bright the world vanishes against it. The world swims back into focus and Dean can see a figure in silhouette at the center: Castiel, swinging the sword. He's burning but also- not burning. It doesn't make a ton of sense to Dean's addled senses. The furious dark clouds are cowering away from it, from Dyrnwyn in full blaze, cleaving in two every time he arcs and hammers the blade down. Castiel is keeping himself between the cloud and Sam, keeping it away from Dean, keeping it busy. Dean's heart thuds in his chest like it's trying to break loose. The hex bag is warm in his bloodied hand. 

"Cas!" Dean yells. Castiel's eyes find him across the field of stones, and he brings the sword down on the creature's grasping arm. It shrieks and scrabbles away. He looks at Dean another second, then turns, lifting the blade for another strike. He knows what Dean has to do. Even if Dean's terrified to do it.

Dean kneels.

He closes his eyes. 

He can hear the hiss of the fiery clouds, the ringing call of Dyrnwyn as it parts them. "By the Holywell," he whispers. Dean tries to think of water. Tries to remember the shape of the pond, the spring, where Castiel knelt. Thinks of his bare legs and cold arms, the ripples he made in the water, like a sinking stone. The warmth between them when Dean wrapped a towel around him and murmured charms into his skin. "By the ancient yew," Dean says. His parents made him a swing in an old tree when he was small, just a rope from the lowest branch. He used to hang from it with his chubby, tiny arms and fall off and land on his back; he can almost remember the patterns the leaves made against the sky, green and blue and gold. "By the wheel, the silver crown," he says. There are stars busting on the backs of his eyelids; fireworks he called up from the tip of his wand, birthday sparklers, Sam's face in the glare of the lights. _Dean, they're beautiful. Dean, thank you_. They used to sit in the yard and name the stars one by one as they came out, past their bedtimes, alone under the vastness of night. "By the blood of the living and the dead," Dean says, and swipes his own bloody finger across his forehead. There is a great rumbling in the earth around them, in the sky. Dean opens his eyes and sees two flames locked in combat, the blue attacking and the red fleeing, warping the sky in its terror. It feels like the end of the world. For them, it probably is. Dean is going to close the door, and here they are on the wrong side of it. It's too late to feel regret, but he does, for their sake. He just wishes- he just wishes- he's so sorry. He's so sorry there wasn't more time. He's sorry he broke his promises, sorry he couldn't save them. Sorry he wasn't enough, after all. Dean marks a rune for ending in the center of his palm and sets the hex bag in the circle of it, curls his fingers tight around it. He closes his eyes and holds his hand against his chest. 

He gives the spell everything: every permission. Allows it to take what it needs, and leave him nothing. Offers himself, all his faults and all his love. Dean bows his head. " _Mae'r ffordd ar gau i chi am byth_."

Earth and heaven and the world below all stop for an instant- Dean can feel them hesitate, like a breeze that dies on the wing, a drop of water paused on the lip of a glass. The blood stills in his veins. He has never worked a spell like this, never done anything so vast and terrible and humbling. He feels it now, the size of it, the incredible hubris of taking the lines of the world between his hands and- _tugging_. Pulling slack lines tight, until they snap. He feels the atoms of his being, each one apart from the other, pulling away and coming back together with a crash, a collision of energy and matter and things wizards don't believe in, component pieces colliding; force travels up his arm from the hex bag and through his skin, out his eyeballs and bursting from his mouth. The spell tears the power from him the way seeds are torn from flowers in a hurricane, it strips magic from his very bones. He doesn't know if he screams. He tries. It feels like the world is shaking itself to pieces, but it might just be him. He passes over land and sea and through the air; he passes out of the door of the world and feels it close behind him. 

It doesn't hurt.

 

 

 

 

Stone by stone, one piece at a time, Dean is mending the broken wall.

He has a trowel in one hand and mortar in a basin; he scrapes his tool against the edge and then slaps mortar across the upper stone, works it smooth. He picks a flat, sturdy stone from his little pile and places it on top, fits it tight into the space and settles it down. He scoops into the mortar and does it again, finds a stone that fits and sets it into the right place, seals it up, does it again. There was a hole in the wall when he started, big as a man, and the stones were broken and crumbled away. He doesn't know how long ago that was. He's been here a while, picking the stones apart and cleaning the busted edges off, scraping away the moss. He sifted through the stones and found the best ones, the biggest and flattest, put them in a pile beside him, and then he started to work. 

It's slow going but he doesn't feel tired. He feels good. Every time he sets a stone down into its place, he feels how right it is, how solid. There's no sweat on his back and his shoulders don't ache. He feels like he could go on doing this forever, putting a stone down, scraping mortar across the top, again and again and again. The wall glows a little, giving him light to work by.

So Dean works.

His pile of stones gets smaller and smaller, until there's only a handful left. The broken part of the wall is just a little dip now, a bend instead of a split, a place that only needs a few more stones to make it whole. Dean wants to make sure the top's even and straight, secure. He sifts through the stones and sets them in a line, judges them carefully. He slots a couple into place and scrapes them over with mortar, sets the others on top. Until there's only the smallest hole, the tiniest flaw in an otherwise perfect wall. Dean finds one more stone in the pile, a smooth pretty rock with a flat topside. It will fit like it was cut for the space.

"That one's mine, I think," a man's voice says. Dean isn't startled. He sets his tools down and turns his head. There's a man sitting on a large stone, knees bent. He's thin and wiry with a gnarled wooden walking-stick, the sort of man who crosses country on foot. A traveler, Dean thinks. The man has dark hair pulled back from his forehead and cropped at the back of his neck, plain and simple clothes, a face lined and weathered by time. But he doesn't feel particularly old, or particularly young. Dean thinks he looks familiar.

Dean holds out the final stone to him.

"This one?"

"The very same," the man nods. "Well chosen." He stands up, unfolds himself, and sets his stick onto the ground. He walks to where Dean is standing and takes the stone from his hands. "Do you want to-" he says, and gestures over the wall with one hand. "Take a last look?"

"I don't understand."

"Of course not." The man smiles. He rests one hand on Dean's shoulder, and tilts him gently, until he's facing the wall and staring over it, far beyond it. "Go on. Look."

Dean stares out across the wall.

He can't see anything at first. Just a far valley covered in grass and clover, a dark sky- the kind of sky that promises a morning soon, blue-black at the edges, close to dawn. And in a few places, fireflies. Tiny flickering lights over the earth, faint. But the lights soften into blurs, into bigger lights, becoming shapes that Dean almost recognizes. They draw closer and lengthen into glowing stripes, into gentle clouds that drift like breath in winter. Two draw closer, and Dean squints to try and see them better, to bring them into focus, and for a second he thinks he sees-

"That's," Dean says. "That's my-"

"Yes," says the man. His hand is cool against Dean's back, solid and strangely comforting. "It is."

"My mother," Dean breathes. A second light flickers beside her, drawing itself up tall and straight and curling around her light a little. "My father," Dean says. He remembers, now. Remembers that she's dead, he's dead, remembers that he missed her, misses her, misses them both- he remembers Sam, remembers Castiel, remembers everything, the fight and the darkness, the blood in his hand and the world stripping itself away. He turns to the man beside him. "How?" The man shrugs.

"It would take more time than you have, to answer that," he tells Dean. Dean looks at him, and down at the wall, and across to the other side.

"Am I dead?"

The man laughs.

"I don't know," he says. "Do you want to be?" Dean stares into the meadow, at the faint points of light dancing under the sky. It's so peaceful now. Almost silent, but- there's a distant sound like water moving, like wind through the trees. Like far-off music. He could be happy there. He could be done. Dean closes his eyes for a second. Thinks of the Holywell, bare skin and cold hands. And Sam's pulse in his throat.

Dean opens his eyes.

"No," he says. "Not yet."

"Good answer," the man says. He takes the stone up again. "Thanks for the help. You don't know how long this thing's been sitting here with a damn-blasted hole in it. Real eyesore."

"You're welcome," Dean says. The man gives him a strange, sideways look. And then grins.

"I never hear that," he says. "I'll remember you." The man sets the stone in place and scrapes mortar around it, and the wall's glow becomes a halo, a pulsing brightness that runs the length of it, as far as Dean's eyes can see. "Until next time," the man says, and puts a hand to Dean's forehead.

There's nothing for a long time- darkness and stars, and then-

" _Dean_."

Dean cracks his eyes open. Everything hurts. He doesn't know where the fuck he is, or what's happening. His back feels damp and his head swims and there's three faces above his, swirling in a circle. Dean squeezes his eyes shut again and then opens them, blinking. Only one face this time, and a familiar one. "Dean," Castiel says again. His hands are cradling Dean's face. He's close and warm and his eyes are red, like he's been crying.

"Hey," Dean manages. He pats Castiel's arm. "Hi."

Castiel laughs. It cracks out of him almost like a sob, and then he's leaning down to kiss Dean's forehead, his hairline, the side of his cheek. " _Cas_ ," Dean sighs. He grips the fabric of his coat as hard as he can, which isn't especially hard. His head is still swimming and his hands feel weak. "Sam?"

"He's hurt," Castiel says. "But he's going to live." Castiel strokes Dean's face, smiles down at him. "You did it."

"Oh," Dean says. He feels like he's going to pass out. It feels kind of awesome, like pins and needles touching him everywhere, like a big fuzzy blanket's being pulled up over his face. "Good," he says. Castiel laughs again and his hands run over Dean like water- Dean loses track of the sensation of touch, of sound. He lets his eyes slip shut and lets go, drifts out under the stars again like a little boat bobbing in the surf. He dreams their old house and their old garden, digging in the dirt, picking flowers to bring to Sam in his bassinet, the tiny pudgy fingers that curled around his for the first time, for always.

It's the best sleep he's had in years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mae'r ffordd ar gau i chi am byth_ , "this road is closed to you forever."


	20. Chapter 20

At first he doesn't even get his own room: the nurses at Saint Winifred's take one look at Dean and shrug and put him into a ward with a bunch of coughing old dudes and kids nursing broken elbows from tipping off their brooms. Technically, there isn't much wrong with Dean's body. He's got some cuts and bruises but mostly he just keeps passing out. They tell him it's a mix of spell-sickness, which he's not sure he buys, and good-old-fashioned exhaustion. His batteries ran down to zero, and now they need a long sleep and probably a hot bath. He lies there in a narrow hospital cot and gets his abrasions knitted back together and his cuts closed up and then since he looks okay, somebody comes around to ask if they can have the bed back. 

"No," Castiel says. "You can't." He's been perched on the edge of Dean's cot for the last few hours. If anybody's noticed that the cuts he came in with have already healed, they haven't said anything. He's still dirty-faced and sort of frightening-looking, but Dean figures that nurses aren't easily flustered by that kind of thing. Case in point, this nurse just frowns and crosses her arm and reminds Castiel that there are other people with their ears hexed on backwards waiting to be seen, that all Dean needs is rest, and he can get that at home. Dean sighs and starts to sit up, and Castiel pushes him backwards. "Stay there," he growls. Dean stares up at him. His arms and legs still sort of feel like wet noodles, so he's not exactly in a position to argue.

"Sir, if your friend is healed, we're happy to release-"

"Release him," Castiel hisses, "and I'll make some new patients, do you understand me?"

After that, Dean gets his own room.

It's only later that word gets around about who Dean actually _is_ \- and Sam and Bobby and Castiel, all the others who came in with them, limping in by twos and threes after the firefight was over and the cleanup had started. Dean and Sam were transported unconscious to the hospital ward, but the rest of them had to round up the stragglers of Azazel's gang and put out the fire that was raging through the little stand of woods. Apparently Henriksen is still dealing with it, along with any of the aurors who weren't cursed or, well. Killed. There are a handful of those. Dean feels pretty fucking guilty about not knowing all their names. At some point newspaper reporters start to crowd around Dean's doorway, hoping for a couple of words or a photograph, asking where Sam is, is Sam alive, is the demon wizard alive, is the demon wizard dead, does Dean support the Caerphilly Catapults or is he more of a Puddlemere United man. Castiel stands in the doorway and tells them Dean is resting and if they have questions they can contact auror Henriksen at the Ministry for the official report. They just crowd closer and ask who Castiel is, does he know them well, the _boys who lived_ , did he get a glimpse at _you-know-who_ , does he suspect a conspiracy, and after that Castiel is- measurably less polite. Eventually they leave, some of them in resignation and a couple of them in terror. Castiel stands stone-faced in front of the door for a while, but none of them come back.

By mid-afternoon they wheel another bed into the room: Sam, still sleeping under a recovery spell while his face and neck heal over. There's shiny pink skin where the burns marked him, but other than that he could just be asleep. Dean lies on his side and stares across the space between their beds, watches Sam's chest rise and fall evenly. He doesn't know what it will be like when Sam wakes up. 

"Aren't you supposed to be asleep?" Bobby says, when he finally clomps in on a pair of crutches, his left leg bound up in a brace to mid-thigh. 

"What the hell happened to you?" Dean asks. Bobby glances down at his leg and his face colors a little. He coughs and lowers himself into a chair and mumbles something sarcastic about heroics. 

"Don't be so modest, Mister Singer," Bela says, from the doorway. She smiles at him and Bobby blushes beet red and looks determinedly down at his feet. Bela comes in and settles herself into one of the uncomfortable bedside chairs; both her hands are gloved in dittany wraps, the kind you get for mild burns. Dean wonders just how dead the person is, who messed up those hands. Probably very. She gestures at Bobby gracefully. "This old-fashioned gentleman threw himself in front of a killing curse, in defense of a lady," she says. "Landing rather badly on a broken gravestone." Bobby slides down further into his chair.

"Are you fucking with me?" Dean says. He looks at Bobby, wide-eyed. "Who-"

"Little purple-haired thing," Bobby says. His head is hanging down practically to his chest. He looks murderously embarrassed. "Didn't get her name."

"Tonks," Dean says. "She said her name was Tonks."

"It was an honor to watch," Bela says. She lays a wrapped hand over her heart. "Makes you feel as if there might be some good left in the world."

"Tonks okay?"

"She's fine," Bela says. Her smile goes catlike again, sort of wicked. "And I don't wish to cheapen the gallantry, but I will tell you that after Bobby's little accident she blew up two wizards by herself, defending him."

"Don't rub it in," Bobby scowls.

There's some noise from the hall and then a pale, skinny figure skids into the doorway. Castiel stands up with his wand in hand, ready to terrify another reporter, but it's only Severus, looking wrung-out and sick with huge dark circles under his eyes. He looks at the beds first and then his frantic gaze settles on Bela, sitting calmly in her chair in the corner. She looks up at him and her expression blanks, goes totally still and impassive, but Dean can see a flicker of tension in the way her shoulders set themselves.

"Bela," Severus says, breathlessly. 

"Hello, Severus," she says. "I see you were notified-" she starts, and by then Severus has already crossed the room and collapsed into her lap, wrapping his arms around her and pressing his face into her midsection like a terrified kid. Bela stares down at him for a long second and then her hand strokes over the back of his head, smoothing the stray hairs down, tucking them gently back into place. Her face goes soft for a second, younger and infinitely gentler. She looks up at Dean with damp eyes and a wry little twist to her smile. "Little brothers," she says, shrugging.

"Yeah," says Dean.

Castiel gets him some water and crushes dittany leaves into it; when Dean complains about the taste he rolls his eyes but finds Dean a sugarcube somewhere. Dean drinks it and passes out again from being awake so long and when he wakes up, Bobby and Bela are gone- a note on the side table says _takin' care of business_ , whatever the hell that means- and Castiel is sitting in a chair next to Dean's bed, his wand still clutched loosely in one hand and his head pillowed on one arm on top of the blankets. He's sleeping with his mouth open. Dean sits and watches him. He slips the wand out of Castiel's hand and sets it onto the bedside table, then twines their fingers together. Castiel doesn't wake up. But his hand curls around Dean's, and he smiles faintly in his sleep. Dean can still see him burning every time he closes his eyes. So he keeps them open for a while longer, and lets his fingertips trace the fresh, silvery scars criss-crossing Castiel's palms. They're new. Castiel hasn't said anything about them. Not yet. Dean doesn't know what they did with the sword.

Just before sundown, Sam wakes up. Dean's okay enough to get out of bed and shuffle over to Sam's side and crowd him at the edge of his bed. Sam's eyes flicker open and his hands twitch and he brings one up to scrub at his face. When his hand moves lower to itch at the freshly-knitted skin of his neck, Dean grabs it away and holds it. Sam's eyes open all the way and he stares at Dean like he's trying to remember something important. "Hey buddy," Dean says. "How you feeling?"

"Dean," Sam says. His eyes flicker around the room, landing on Bobby and Castiel, both leaning over the bed with pleased faces. Sam looks at Dean and down at himself and up at the ceiling, and he makes a strained smile. "I'm, uh, I'm okay," he says. "Is everybody okay?"

"We're fine," Bobby says. He pats Sam's arm, squeezes his hand. His eyes look misty to Dean, but then Dean's one to fucking talk. He doesn't say anything. "Welcome back."

"Thanks," Sam says. "Thank you," he says, to all of them. He grips Dean's hand. "Is it, uh- did we-"

"It's over," Dean says. Sam closes his eyes for a long second, and then opens them and finds Dean again, nods and smiles a little more broadly.

"Okay," he says. He exhales. "Wow."

"Sam, would you like something to drink?" Castiel asks, and Sam nods gratefully. Castiel looks at Dean and then turns to Bobby. "Bobby, I can find a nurse for you. Should be nearly time to remove your brace."

"Yeah," Bobby says. "Sure thing." He squeezes Sam's hand again, then lets go and hobbles over to the door. Castiel opens it for him and then shuts it behind them, and then they're alone. Dean swallows and smiles and pats Sam on the shoulder. 

"What you did," he starts, and Sam shakes his head.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry, it was stupid, I-"

"You saved the frigging world, Sam," Dean interrupts. Sam stares at him. "I don't know how you did it, how you fought him, but Sam- he would have killed me, he would have killed all of us, and that's just for starters. I can't- I can't tell you what it was like, seeing you-" Dean says, and chokes on it, and has to stop for air. "Watching you fall, you don't know what I thought. But you did what you had to do. I'm not mad. I'm proud as hell." 

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Dean says. "Well. Okay. I'm a little mad," he says, and punches Sam in the shoulder.

"Ouch, what the-"

"Don't you ever, _ever_ do that again," Dean hisses. "Don't you fucking _dare_. I didn't teach you spells so you could fucking _kill_ yourself with them, you jackass."

"Ow, Dean, shit!"

"Sorry," Dean says. Sam rubs his shoulder and glares at him, then breaks into a crooked grin. 

"I won't," Sam says. "Cross my heart."

Dean sits at the edge of the bed and tells him the rest of the story, what happened after they fell, the end of the spell and the weird wall thing that Dean still doesn't really know how to process. Sam listens and asks a million questions and Dean answers so many that he starts to feel dizzy and tired again. Castiel comes back and props Dean up in a chair and the three of them sit together for a while not really talking about anything. "I saw her," Sam says, after a few minutes of empty silence. Dean's head was resting on Castiel's shoulder and he was almost asleep. He lifts up and blinks at Sam, who's twisting the corner of his blanket between his hands. "When I was out," Sam says. "I saw mom. Or maybe- it was like a dream," he adds, sheepishly. "It's dumb. But I thought- the truth is, I didn't know her. Not like you did. I never really knew her. I don't remember her at all. But when I looked at her, I just- I just _felt_ her." He looks at Dean. "I know why you love her so much," Sam says. "I get it now."

Dean finds he can't say anything to that, finds he can't say anything at all. He reaches out across the bed and Sam takes his hand, holds it tight.

 

 

 

 

By early morning Sam's throat and face are completely healed, if still a little tender, Bobby's leg is solid again, and Dean's staying awake for more than two hours at a time. So the nurses finally get to kick them out. The four of them stand there blinking in the morning sunlight on the sidewalk outside of Saint Winifred's. Dean turns a slow circle, looking at the street signs.

"Are we in _Cardiff_?" he says, finally. "Go figure." Castiel's eyes narrow down.

"Where did you think we were?"

Dean shrugs.

"Dunno," he says. "St. David's, maybe? The moon? I wasn't paying attention." Castiel frowns and nudges him sideways in irritation, turning him towards the public floo at the end of the street. "Hey, I'm a war hero, watch it!"

"Somebody's punchy," Bobby says.

"I've been drinking dittany water since yesterday," Dean says. He puts his fists up. "Find me a bear to fight." Sam sighs and puts a hand over his face.

"Where are we going?" Sam asks. "I'm starving, and I want to sleep for the rest of my life." Bobby makes a grumbling noise that's probably agreement. Dean looks at Castiel and Castiel looks back at him; when Dean extends a hand between them, palm up, Castiel takes it.

"Home," Dean says. 

" _Dean_ ," Sam says, "Bobby's is like a million miles-"

"No," Dean says. "Not what I meant." He clears his throat. Castiel's eyes are warm, practically radiating at him. They don't look away. "I want to go _home_." Sam looks at their joined hands and his eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and then he smiles.

"Yeah," Sam says. "That sounds good."

"Please tell me I can lay a decent devil's trap for you, then," Bobby says.

"Be my guest," says Castiel.

"After lunch," Dean insists.

"Dean." Sam frowns at him. "It's eight-fifteen in the morning."

"After breakfast," says Dean.

"You're stuck with him now," Bobby is busy telling Castiel. "Boy doesn't know the first thing about ward systems. Oh sure, he can lay a good trap. I'm not saying that doesn't take skill. But for wards you got to have patience. You got to have an interlocking cascade. Only real security's in interlocking cascades."

"Bobby, shut up!"

"I think we should listen," Castiel says. "I'm finding this informative."

"Jesus Christ," says Dean.


	21. Chapter 21

It's eleven-thirty in the morning and Dean has been working in the garden since seven-thirty, when he stumbled out of bed and pulled his jeans on and kissed Castiel on the cheek and watched him roll back onto his stomach, still happily dead to the world. It's going to be hot later, so the wireless says, so it's better that he finishes digging the new fall beds before the afternoon sun gets to the top of the slide and makes the work miserable instead of pleasantly mindless. The heat wave is almost broken- July is almost over- but there's not a single cloud in the sky today. Dean measured it out yesterday, paced out two big rectangles, one for the winter squashes and turnips, the other a place to transplant their growing buds of brussel sprouts and cabbages. This morning he's digging them up, turning the soil over and shaking the little stones out, getting it nice and soft and mixing it with the bags of manure he brought home on a cart last week. If he gets both beds done and seeded he could re-plant carrots in the smaller summer beds, maybe get another harvest of those in a few weeks. Castiel's pea vines are done for the season, but they could probably get another round of cucumbers in.

The back door opens and closes, behind him. Dean sticks the pitchfork into the dirt and turns to watch Castiel coming down the garden path, wearing one of Dean's ratty t-shirts and carrying a basket of wet sheets out towards the clotheslines. He stops halfway, where Dean is, and looks out across the new beds. 

"You're almost finished," he says. "You should have asked for help." Dean shrugs.

"I'm good."

Castiel smiles at him and goes on past to hang the sheets. Dean hauls out another sack of manure and spreads it out, then turns it over with the pitchfork a few times, circulating it through the soil and breaking up the chunks. It's not hot enough yet that the sweat runs into his eyes, but he can feel the sun on his back now, insistent and warm. The dirt he turns up is still cool underneath, like the ground here can't help but stubbornly hang onto the chill a little. Dean works and digs and doesn't think about anything besides sunshine and future cabbages. And then after a while Castiel is there, too, gloved and carrying a spade of his own, and between them they finish it and seed it and haul buckets of water down from the pump. They're finished just before one, the sun's as high as it's going to get, and Dean's shoulders ache. He sits down on the little stone half-wall that circles the edge of the house grounds and marks the start of what used to be grazing fields, when this was properly farmland. He takes his shirt off and mops his face with it, and Castiel lugs down another bucket of cold water and they take turns soaking their shirts in it and wiping themselves off. They sit there with cool wet shirts draped around their necks and Dean asks what Castiel wants to do about beets.

"Beets?" Castiel says, blankly. "I have no opinion on beets."

"They're good roasted," Dean says. "Nothing like the canned kind. We used to eat beets that way when I was a kid."

"Well," Castiel says. "I'll look forward to them, then."

He goes up to the house but Dean stays there, sitting on the wall. The stone's warm but not hot and the shirt around his neck feels good and when he closes his eyes he kind of still sees a far horizon line shimmering in the distance, dancing with heat before he opens them again. When he finally does open his eyes, Castiel is standing beside him; he leans down and kisses the top of Dean's head, moves down the side of his face and kisses his jaw, tilts him upward and opens their mouths together, hot and soft and slow. "Come on," he says, and pulls Dean up.

Apparently he went up to the house to get a picnic: charmed-cold beer in a big brown bottle, grapes and cheese and olives and brown bread, spread out on that big wooden cutting board Dean likes. Castiel gets four of the garden stakes and ties them to the ends of one of the sheets; draped over the line and staked out at the edges, it makes a big tent. They lay under it in the grass and eat lunch and finish the beer off and then Dean falls asleep for fifteen minutes in the shade. He wakes up warm and dazed and half-hard with Castiel sucking kisses into his throat. 

"Absolutely," Dean says, feeling pretty much in harmonious agreement with everything. Castiel smiles again- or still, he's been smiling at Dean all day, all summer- and unzips Dean's jeans and palms him gently and then less gently while Dean groans and rolls up into his hands. They struggle out of their sweaty clothes- what's left of them- and Dean lies naked in the grass with Castiel over him, feeling hot air and cold soil and warm skin. Castiel licks his hand and pulls Dean and then leans over to take him into his mouth, down his throat, while Dean's toes curl and uncurl in the clover. " _Cas_ , Jesus, you're so-" Dean babbles, and Castiel hums and sucks him and circles a finger lower, lower, and then briefly, gently presses in- and Dean sighs and grabs a handful of hair and comes down Castiel's throat. Castiel pushes in to the knuckle and strokes him inside while Dean gasps and keeps coming for what feels like fucking forever. Dean throws an arm over his face and pants and then leans up to look at Castiel, smug and still hard and so unbelievably fucking gorgeous he's probably a mirage, a heatstroke dream. "Oh yeah?" Dean says, nonsensically. He opens his knees again and pulls Castiel closer. "Fuck me, then, hotshot."

Castiel opens him up so slow and sweet that Dean's half-mast again just watching him, and then he fucks Dean with his back in the grass and his face up for Castiel to kiss it a dozen times. Castiel cradles his leg up and goes deep the way Dean likes it, until he can feel the pounding heartbeat in Castiel's arm through the soft thin skin behind Dean's knee, can feel him thick and hot and close, can feel him pulse and come and rest his head down on Dean's chest and put trembling kisses on his collarbones. Castiel rolls off him and they lie there together in the shade. Dean pulls blades of grass up and piles them idly onto Castiel's side, the dip of his waist, leaves them there like he's building a little bird's nest in Castiel's hip, just because it's funny and he wants to. Castiel lets him. 

He doesn't cover himself up again the way he used to, afterwards. Dean loves him this way, naked and boneless and nearby, close so that Dean can touch him, trace his scars and the meat of his thighs, the curve of his arms, the veins in his wrists. His palms are still scarred from the sword, but softly, more like they were painted on with starlight; he says they're the only scars that didn't hurt when he got them. The sword blazed for the wolf, burned like an inferno from being touched by a dark creature- but it loved the man like Dean does, protected him at the same time. Castiel didn't even realize he had new markings until Dean kissed them and held them up against his face. He didn't feel a thing. _Noble worth_ , Dean has known that since he met him, but now those silvery lines are a kind of proof.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Castiel says. Dean rolls onto his side and pillows his head on one arm.

"I think Sam's coming home tomorrow," Dean says. "And I'm gonna hate seeing you in clothes again." Castiel laughs and rolls his eyes. "Hey, this is serious," Dean complains.

"Mm." Castiel rolls up onto his side, too, makes them a pair of parentheses. "I see."

"I was thinking the dittany seedlings Bobby sent are just about choking my oregano to death."

"They are."

"I was thinking before it gets cold we should insulate the attic."

"I ordered fourteen rolls of insulation last week," Castiel says. "You'll have to tell me if you think that'll be enough."

"You are," Dean says, "literally perfect."

 

 

 

 

Sam comes in to Hogsmeade the next afternoon; there's only a couple of people waiting on the platform for family members or parcels so Dean spots him right away, sixteen feet of Winchester banging his head on the compartment doorway as he climbs off the train.

"Ow," Sam says. He rubs his head like a confused kid and waves at Dean and Castiel. "Hey, guys." Dean comes forward and wraps his arms around him, hugs the air out of him, and Sam laughs and slaps his back and tells him to get the fuck off of him, what is Dean, a squid? But for all his complaining Sam hugs back, hard, and then they break apart and Sam lurches forward to hug Castiel, who still never looks prepared for that kind of thing. He pats Sam's back and then really hugs him tight, and Dean watches them both and pretends he's not feeling kind of overwhelmed. Sam's got baggage- a couple of big suitcases and a laptop bag slung across his back- but Castiel brought a rucksack with an extension charm so they just shove the suitcases into that. Dean insists on carrying it, because he is- as Sam puts it- a macho jackass. The suitcases clunk gently together in the bag as they walk.

"You did okay?" Dean asks him, on their way through the village. "School didn't give you any trouble?"

"No," Sam says. "My makeups were fine. I had to take one more summer course than I thought, but I'm done now. I can walk next May if I want. I don't know if I'll bother going back for that."

"Hey," Dean says. "You should. We'll all go. We'll stay with Bobby, he'll love that. Cas, you've never been to Salem, right? It's perfect, we can go back to Saberhagen's." Dean thinks about that and cracks up. "You'll actually be old enough to get in without me hexing the door guy."

"Great," Sam frowns. 

"Seriously," Dean says. "You earned this fucking degree. I'm proud of you. Mom and dad would be proud of you. You should walk. I promise I'll wear a suit."

"I'll think about it," Sam says, but his face looks sheepishly, secretly pleased. Dean thinks about him in a cap and gown, size extra-extra tall, waving to Dean from a stage. It puts an extra spring in Dean's step pretty much all the way back to the house. When they get back Dean shows Sam his room, now with repaired windows and freshly plastered walls and a new rug on the floor that Dean brought in a city market. A bookshelf Castiel rummaged up, a little desk he can use. Sam turns in a circle and admires their work. "You guys have been busy," Sam says. "I thought you two were doing some kind of Ministry job?"

"Contract stuff," Dean says. "They call when they need us."

"Grave-clearing?"

"That too," Dean says. He grins. "But mostly Indiana Jones stuff, thrilling danger, you know." Sam makes a face. "Come on, let me pretend to be cool for five seconds. I tell you, you would not _believe_ the evil shit some people were buried with. We tracked down these death masks, dug them up in June-"

Dean tells the story over lunch, and Castiel corrects him when his facts stray into fictional heroics. Sam listens and demonstrates what Dean thinks is probably the correct amount of awe. And then he fills them in on the letter he got from Henriksen, the offer to be a muggle affairs consultant to the Ministry. Sam's going to take the job, going to see what they offer, what kind of new initiatives they'll be willing to take. It's a totally new position, a place for him to make his mark. Dean's kind of over the moon about it. That, and the fact that it means Sam's going to be a hell of a lot closer starting now. He wonders if Sam's going to start bugging him about a dog. Well, Dean could handle a dog. Small price to pay, having his family under one roof. Dean wonders if they could get a puppy in the village or if he'll have to ask around. Bela would probably gift them some kind of stupidly expensive pureblood if he told her Sam wanted one. She'd probably send Sam a whole basket of puppies and a dinner invitation, Dean's not blind, he saw the faces she made in Sam's direction when everybody thought Dean was still asleep in his hospital bed.

"Have you told them about your- status change?" Castiel says, carefully, while Dean's clearing their plates away. Sam flushes a little and shakes his head, turns his beer around slowly in his hands.

"No. Not yet."

"He doesn't have to, if he doesn't want to," Dean says. "Besides, we don't know what it means, yet."

"That's true." Castiel takes a drink. "But things have a way of coming to light."

"Fair point," Dean agrees.

"You don't want to be caught off-guard when they find out," Castiel says, to Sam. "Maybe it's better to think now about what you'd say. Who you'd tell, first."

"Henriksen," Sam says. "I think I can trust him."

"That guy's okay," Dean says. "Do the bird trick for him."

" _Dean_ ," Sam scowls. "I'm not going to make charmed birds fly around for my boss."

"I like that one," Dean says. Sam's face relaxes a little, goes soft.

"You taught it to me."

He remembers holding Sam's hands over the paper, in the first days after- whatever they called it, the final battle, the war of the wall, whatever, newspapers suck. He remembers the uncontrollable bursts of telekinesis that happened up in Sam's room when he had nightmares that first week, the way his hands glowed at weird times. He'd been convinced that Azazel was still alive and in him somehow, he'd begged Dean to kill him or lock him up, and instead Dean had taken out a sheet of paper and held their hands together and tried to remember how to say it, the way she used to say it, the first time she taught it to him- four years old, his tiny hands in hers, tiny power gathering in the tips of his fingers like pins and needles. And Dean had whispered _adar yn hedfan_ and made Sam repeat it until they opened their joined hands and between them was a tiny paper sparrow that beat its fragile wings and lifted up to circle in the air. It was beautiful magic, gentle and generative magic, like their mother's. There was nothing evil in it. Sam had been a squib all his life and now- now he wasn't anymore. Dean has the feeling he's used his last semester at school to resolutely _not_ think about that fact, but there'll be no escaping it anymore. Castiel has offered to teach him. He's the one who told Dean that it might have been trauma- might have been an effect of the unfinished spell, the curse that ricocheted off of Sam and onto their mother, the mess of power and death that blew their family apart in the first place. It might have been what held Sam's magic in, blighted it all those years. And now that it's over, that everything's been blown apart again, it might just be growing, unfurling like the buds in their garden, getting stronger in its roots. _He's going to be powerful_ , Castiel said, even back then, when all Sam could do was charm paper birds and make acorns disappear from under mugs. _He's going to be tremendous_.

"Come on," Dean says, when he's washed up and gotten them all another beer. "Let me show you the garden."

They stand together at the bottom of the little slope, drinking and talking about vegetable growing seasons; apparently Sam reads everything, and has some ideas for next year. Next year. They're becoming two of Dean's favorite words. By next year he wants to have all the windows re-done and new wiring put in, maybe. A grill- and a patio to put it on, like at Bobby's house. He wants Sam to be the pride of the Ministry, a rising star. By next year he wants Castiel to laugh more and wear fewer layers. He wants to go a whole year without having that same old nightmare. Castiel smiles at something Sam is saying about irrigation drip-hoses, and his eyes fall on Dean and Dean thinks, his heart pounding outrageously, _next year I want to get married_. Christ. He does. Well, he'll deal with that bridge when he falls off of it. For now he just puts his arm around Castiel's shoulder and points out the new squash beds.

"This is amazing," Sam says. He's bent down to look at the labels Dean made for the different rows. Sam looks up and his face is radiating pure, plain happiness. He's a little buzzed by now- they both are, Castiel's not, fucking werewolf metabolism- but Dean knows he means it. Sam gestures around at the house, the garden. "This is seriously amazing. It's looking great."

"Yeah," Dean says. "Sure is."

"He hasn't even shown you the beets yet," says Castiel.

 

 

 

 

"If we were children we might climb,  
catch the rooks sleeping, and break no twig,  
and, after the soft ascent,  
thrust out our heads above the branches  
to wonder at the unfailing stars.  
Out of confusion, as the way is,  
and the wonder, that man knows,  
out of the chaos would come bliss."

-Dylan Thomas, _Being But Men_


End file.
